


Whispers in the Dark

by siriusblaack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Brother-Sister Relationships, Creepy Petyr Baelish, Eventual Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Minor Catelyn Tully Stark/Ned Stark, Mutual Pining, Past Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Petyr Baelish is His Own Warning, Prejudice Against Muggle-borns, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), R Plus L Equals J, Ravenclaw Sansa Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen Being an Asshole, Sister-Sister Relationship, Slow Burn, The Starks are traditionally hufflepuffs, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), hufflepuff jon snow, mention of past abusive relationship, sansa and arya don't get along at first, sansa and arya's path to friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblaack/pseuds/siriusblaack
Summary: After two years as an exchange student at Beauxbatons, Sansa Stark has finally returned to Britain. She missed her family with an aching heart, and she now intends to recover the wounded relationship with her family, especially with her sister Arya Stark, whom she had always a hard time getting along with.Jon Snow always thought himself to be an ordinary boy until he learned he was a wizard and soon boarded to a life full of discoveries in a world he never thought existed. At Hogwarts, he quickly became friends with Robb Stark, fell in love with Quidditch and faced the ugly prejudice his muggle-born status brought. But in his final year at the magical school, the young wizard will soon have to face another ground shaking truth.This is the story of Sansa Stark and Jon Snow and how they came to be. But this is also a story of friendship, and the pain of growing up and finding your place in the world; a story of youth and resistance, of love and war. For the Wizarding World is changing, and everyone must choose a side. Because, you see, war changes everyone. Even if we win, we will all lose something.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 125
Kudos: 278





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Asoiaf, GoT, George R. R. Martin, HBO, J.K. Rowling and Warner, consider yourselves disclaimed. The title of the fic comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNaM-N1NdGo) from Mumford & Sons. Check them out, they're amazing!
> 
> Hello, everyone! This is my first attempt at fanfiction. This story has been at the back of my mind for more than a year now, and I had finally decided to write it.
> 
> I wanted to thank both my friends Amanda and Nathalia for listening to me rambling about this nonstop. I also wanted to give a special thanks to [Lylanne](https://lylanne.tumblr.com/), my talented beta reader. English is not my first language and this beautiful human being helped me a lot.  
> Also, I'm [Starksnsa](https://starksnsa.tumblr.com/) at tumblr if you guys want to check it out.
> 
> The prologue and first chapter are available.  
> Anyway, enjoy this Wizarding World AU!

"You and I could do so many great things together, my son." 

He said it with a low voice and Jon swore he could feel a chill traveling through his spine, though it was nothing like the ones he felt when  _ she _ entered a room; when her bright blue eyes found his, or when she laughed: that heartfelt sound that would reverberate through his whole body like the chords of his old guitar, or his favorite songs he enjoyed listening to endlessly.

This was dread. Complete and utter dread.

"I am not your son." 

He wished he had sounded strong and brave and intimidating, but even though his voice was firm it still seemed strange to his ears. He was afraid. Only a fool wouldn't be afraid while being in the presence of one of the most powerful wizards in Britain. 

"You can't deny blood, son. You can't deny what runs through your veins, what hums just beneath your skin." There was a hint of a smile on Rhaegar's face, that arrogant, cruel, perfectly collected and controlled face. "Those without power should fear those with it, and it is time the world remembers that. No longer should we live in the shadows. I hope you will eventually choose the right side."

The wizard put a hand on his shoulder like a father would, holding him tight beneath his long fingers. Jon's hand, however, traveled towards the pocket of his trousers where his wand was stored. 

She was right, he shouldn't have come here, he shouldn’t have looked for him. She was right most of the time and he reminded himself to tell her that when he had the chance. But before he could say or do anything, a bright light almost blinded him. 

Jon Snow knew he was fairly quick at drawing his wand, and he was skilled at spell work, else he wouldn't be a significantly good dueler, but that hex was not conjured by him. He felt confused and at once tried to steady himself, when he suddenly felt a tight grip on his arm. He heard a faint cracking noise, and then came the familiar sensation of his body being pressed in all directions. 


	2. Fields of green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and her cat, Lady, return to Wintertown, Scotland - the charming and magically hidden little wizarding village she grew up in - by portkey after she'd spent two years studying at Beauxbatons and staying at her Aunt Lysa's house in Paris.

Sansa Stark had forgotten how many times she’d told everyone she knew about how she’d always wanted to be an exchange student at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France. But after two years studying at the castle situated somewhere in the Pyrenees mountains, she came to the conclusion that Beauxbatons wasn’t for her.

She longed for  _ home _ .

She missed Wintertown and its winters as cold as frozen iron. She missed the loud and messy mornings at Winterfell Estate: the ancestral home of her family. With its magically heated stone walls, dusty forgotten rooms, and old paintings of the many Starks that had lived before her. She missed her mother, of whom she looked so much alike. She’d missed her warm touches and the softness of her voice when she hummed a song while they baked together. She missed her father, his deep and solemn voice, and his face full of little wrinkles because he worried, and worked, too much. She missed all of her siblings: trustworthy Robb, who was born to be an older brother; sweet and thoughtful Bran, too smart for his own good; wild and curious Rickon, always trying to be like his older brothers; and even fierce, and perpetually angry, Arya, with whom she’d always had a hard time getting along with.

She missed them all with an aching heart for it had been two years since she’d set foot in Britain.

But there was a part of her, a whispering little voice in the back of her mind, that wondered if they’d missed her at all.

_ You left them. You left them. You left them. _

It had all started when she was only thirteen years old, a young Ravenclaw witch with a head full of dreams. She could still remember how excited she felt when her dear friend Margaery Tyrell, with sun kissed skin and a bright smile, had told her everything about her summer in France. She had told her about bathing in the warm french sun, and dinners at twilight in the middle of a garden. Of long walks in the bucolic countryside with the smell of warm bread, lavender and fresh fruits. And, best of all, she told Sansa about her visit to the Pyrenees mountains, and the Wizarding School her cousin attended. It only took Sansa a few dazzling words for her to fall in love.

Sansa Stark loved Hogwarts, there was no doubt in that. When her older brother Robb had boarded the Hogwarts Express to a life full of new discoveries and adventures, she had waited impatiently for his letters and their little drops of information about the school she would attend in the following year. She had been so excited about learning to perform magic, and so nervous about the sorting ceremony; wondering what would happen if her soon to be professors discovered that she wouldn’t fit in any of the four houses, and therefore would send her home because of it.

But as she’d listened to Margaery on that sunny morning of September 1st, she imagined herself walking the same gardens and tasting the same food, and it soon became an obsession. She had made the decision right then and there: she would study at Beauxbatons, she would learn a new language, discover a new culture, and meet new people. After all, what was so terribly wrong about wanting something different, new, and exciting for herself?

It took some hard work to convince Ned and Catelyn Stark during the Holidays that year. Her father tried to encourage all of his kids’ dreams, but he’d hoped Sansa’s was just a phase, and her mother had been deeply worried about being so far away from her oldest daughter. It was one thing to watch her children board to magical school every September, since Wintertown - the charming and magically hidden little wizarding village, founded by Brandon Stark the Builder in the XIV century - was located in the Highlands of Scotland, where Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was also situated. It was another thing entirely to send her daughter to study in France, and her husband agreed with her on that.

But Sansa Stark was stubborn and strong willed, as all of her siblings, and her parent’s initial discouragement wasn’t enough to make her give up on her dream. 

She took matters into her own hands, and wrote to her mother’s sister, Lysa Arryn. Her Aunt Lysa lived in France, and she knew the possibility of staying with a close relative could help her cause. Catelyn was a bit cross when she discovered that Sansa made all the arrangements with Lysa without consulting her first, but she couldn’t deny that the solution presented by Sansa made her feel better about the whole idea. And with Cat being more comfortable about letting Sansa study in a foreign country, Ned was consequently in favor too. So her father made all the arrangements with Hogwarts’ Headmaster, Aemon Targaryen, and Beauxbatons’ Yohn Royce, and soon her departure to France for her fourth and fifth year was certain.

But then, tragedy soon came to the Stark family.

Her little brother, Bran, fell several feet to the ground, with broken legs and a broken back, on a warm morning of June at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. A broom race with his friends almost killed him, and it was a miracle that he survived. And even though her family faced their hardest days, she still chose for leave to France. She chose her dream, she chose Beauxbatons, and there wasn’t a single day that passed where she hadn’t felt guilty because of it.

_ You left them. You left them. You left them. _

Sansa blew out a breath, hoping to make those words go away. She faced her reflection in the mirror, finishing her side braid with agile fingers, her long and auburn hair hanging on her right shoulder. She then rushed to the other side of the room, where her trunk remained open, and her things were half packed. She brushed her fingers across the soft fabric of a pale blue blazer with a golden emblem - her school uniform for the past two years. She’d decided to bring it back with her, even though it reminded her of sorrow and loneliness.

The illusion she had so carefully built for herself while waiting anxiously for her school days at Beauxbatons had shattered like a broken mirror, the sharp edges eager to bite her. France was not at all like she imagined it to be when listening to Margaery.  _ No _ , France was sideway glances in the corridors, cold stares, and deep frowns. It was being excluded by other girls no matter how much she smiled. She used to smile a lot, so desperate for them to like her. France was indifferent looks and mean jests, feeling completely lonely and missing her family, her home, and her friends. It was falling in love with the wrong bloke; wandering hands and hungry kisses and losing her virginity in a broom closet. It was heartbreak, and the humiliating feeling of giving the right pieces of her to the wrong person, because some people take and take and take and never give anything back. It was building safety walls so high she almost imprisoned herself. It was ravenous touches and lingering glances and the suffocating smell of the mint leaves he enjoyed chewing, the smell always so close to her.  _ Too close _ .

France had sharpened her like a blade, had made her walk with a straight back and had made her realise that life was not made of stupid little dreams.

Sansa only wished she’d learned those lessons a different way.

“Are you ready to go home?” She asked her grey cat, Lady, with clever amber eyes, who was standing at her studying desk as if she were a beautiful statue.

Lady had been her loyal friend since Sansa was eleven years old and, for the last two years, Lady had been her  _ only _ friend. The unusually intelligent cat jumped to the floor with impossible elegance and Sansa took the opportunity to pick her up and caress her soft grey fur.

“I’m certain you must miss hunting at Winterfell’s gardens,” she added with a cheerful voice, recalling all the little gifts Lady used to bring her - rats, dead leaves, cockroaches, and other insects. Sometimes she scared Sansa to death when she’d put those gifts on the edge of her bed: a morning offer for when she woke up.

“I miss Winterfell too,” she confessed, and Lady purred with Sansa’s caress, smart eyes looking right back at her.

In a few minutes she would be able to hug her parents and her siblings, and she felt a great rush of excitement at the thought.

_ Will they be happy to see me? _ She wondered,  _ Or will they resent me for not visiting Scotland last summer? For leaving them behind and pursuing my dream of studying abroad when they needed me? _

As the only other Ravenclaw in the family attending Hogwarts at that time, besides Bran himself, she would have been essential for giving him the support he needed. Instead of doing that, she left them.

_ I deserve punishment _ . Still, she hoped they would be happy to have her back.

_ You don’t deserve them. _

The sound of someone knocking at the open door startled her. She looked up, Lady jumping from her arms to the ground, and her eyes met those of her cousin, Robert Arryn, the eleven year old boy she became so fond of during the last couple of years. She thought of Rickon, recalling that her little brother would be the same age as Robin, and she wondered how much had he grown while she had been away. The last time she saw him he was still just a child, and would often ask her to read him a story before sleep.

“I’m sorry to startle you, Sansa. Mother says you must hurry, for the Ministry employee will arrive soon,” Robin said, while walking into the room.

She smiled at him in a wordless way of saying ‘thank you’, meaning to get Lady inside her travel cage.

“I will miss you, Sansa,” he continued, and, a little hesitant at first, hugged her.

Sansa in turn wrapped her arms around the boy, running her hands through his dark hair like she used to do with Rickon.

She smiled at him, “This is not a goodbye, Robin. You know that. You will see me again very soon when you come to Britain to attend Hogwarts, like you’ve said you wanted.” He then looked anxiously at her.

Robin was fond of asking her to tell him about what Hogwarts was like. She would tell him stories about a giant squid living in a black lake, the haunted forest, and the many secrets hidden inside the stone walls. He was so much like she had been a few years ago, anxiously hearing all Margaery could manage to tell her about Beauxbatons.

“And you will make lots of friends, don’t worry. I’m sure you and my brother Rickon will be the best of mates. He will be attending Hogwarts too, you know,” Sansa continued, trying to tranquilize him a bit because he still seemed a tad unsure of himself. She hoped Hogwarts wouldn’t be to Robin as Beauxbatons had been to her. “Now help me lock my trunk, will you?” She patted his back, meaning to have a last look around the bedroom, making sure she wasn’t forgetting something.

Once she was packed, Robin helped her carry her things downstairs where his mother was waiting for her.

“Excellent, you’re here.”

Her Aunt Lysa Arryn was a stern, cold woman. She rarely had kind words for Sansa and seemed to resent her. For what, Sansa never knew, but she’d tried hard to please Lysa while staying at her house. She was overprotective of her only son, because even though Robin had been healthier than ever lately, he still suffered seizures from time to time. Her poor cousin had been quite the spoiled little boy when they met, but it seemed that hers and his godfather’s, Headmaster Royce, influence had done him some good. Robin was a sweet boy, and Sansa had learned to love him like a little brother, trying to shield him from his mother’s mood swings.

“The Ministry employee we’ve been waiting for has just arrived. It is a shame you’ve made her wait for you,” said Lysa, standing next to a witch with short dark hair near the front door.

“I’m deeply sorry about that,” Sansa smiled nervously at them both. “So… I guess this is goodbye, Aunt Lysa. Thank you for having me here,” she said honestly, turning around so she could face the woman.

“Travel safe, niece, and make sure to say hello to Catelyn for me,” Lysa answered with a thin lined smile, “Now go on, girl. I don’t want you to miss your Portkey and I’m sure Miss Stone has a lot more to do instead of escorting young witches. Mr Baelish will be dining with me and Robin this evening and I want to have everything ready for his arrival, so hurry.” 

Lysa pushed her a few times through the living room and barely noticed her niece almost freezing on her spot when she mentioned her Charms Professor at Beauxbatons. She was glad she would be thousands of miles away from her Aunt’s house when Petyr Baelish arrived, for she could not stand being in the same room with that man ever again.

Sansa gave her cousin a last cheerful smile before grabbing her things and following Miss Stone through the front door. They reached the street, where muggle Paris went on with their day, not noticing the hidden house protected with magic.

“She really wanted you out of her house, did she not?” The Ministry employee started, her voice thick with a french accent, and her blue eyes looking on playfully. “I’m Mya Stone, by the way, it’s nice to meet you,” Mya said, offering her hand.

“I’m Sansa Stark, it’s lovely to meet you too,” Sansa smiled, shaking the witch's hand while they walked through the street. “And my Aunt never liked me anyway. I don’t really know why,” she answered, because she really didn’t.

“We will soon reach the alley I’ve selected for your travel,” Mya added, looking around to make sure they went unnoticed by any of the muggles walking through that street. Even with Sansa pulling her trunk and carrying Lady’s travel cage, they seemed to fit their surroundings perfectly.

“Do you work at the Magical Transportation Office? In the Ministry, I mean. I thought the French Ministry would only send me the Portkey. I’m sorry you have to escort me.”

“Don’t worry, ma chérie, my shift will be ending in a few minutes and I’ll be meeting my boyfriend who lives nearby, so it’s not trouble at all,” Mya said. “And it’s safer this way since you’re still underage, and travelling to a different country through the floo network is quite risky. Portkey is the safest choice.” The young woman added while they turned left in a small, quiet street.

“Here,” she announced, pointing to a little empty alley. She gestured for Sansa to take the lead while she drew her wand and murmured a protection spell, for the two of them to remain unseen by the muggles nearby.

“You have… twenty seconds, mademoiselle,” Mya said with a quick glance at her watch. “Do you like my choice of object?” 

There was humor in her face, and Sansa took a while to understand what she meant. At last she saw an empty bottle laid near one of the brick walls. It was a firewhiskey bottle. Not just any firewhiskey, though, it was  _ Stark’s Old Firewhiskey _ : the kind her family had produced for many centuries. It was the most popular and consumed firewhiskey of the Wizarding World.

“Oh, that was very thoughtful of you,” Sansa smiled with awe in her eyes and Mya winked playfully at her.

It was like she was staring right at a piece of home. She recalled exploring the Distillery with Robb, Arya and little Bran as a child: playing hide and seek between enormous stacks of wooden casks; hearing their voices and laughter echo in the cold stone halls. Remembering she would soon return to the place that filled her with such bittersweet memory during her two years abroad made her shiver nervously.

“Mademoiselle?” Mya’s voice brought her back from her daze. Suddenly, she felt a surge of gratitude for this stranger’s kindness. That she’d taken the time to choose not just any random object to bring her home, but something that connected her to her family; to the Scottish Highlands she’d missed so much.

“Thank you, Miss Stone, truly.” Sansa smiled and Mya Stone beamed in return.

“Safe travels, Mademoiselle Stark. I hope you don’t get Portkey-sick. You have ten seconds.”

Sansa held tight to her trunk and Lady’s travel cage, trying to hold them with only one of her arms. The firewhiskey bottle started to vibrate with a low sound and Sansa made sure to grab it with her free hand.

“Trois, deux, un…” She heard Mya’s voice and took a deep breath, closing her eyes in anticipation. Soon the feeling of having an invisible hook pulling her somewhere behind the navel reached her. The uncomfortable sensation of floating and spinning out of control lasted a few seconds and, since Sansa never knew when was the right time to let go, she just hoped it would lead her to where she intended to go.

The first thing she felt was the sharp pain of her back hitting the ground. She groaned, pushing herself to a sitting position, feeling quite sick and dizzy. Her backpack was still in place but her trunk lied a few meters away from her. Miraculously, it was still closed. Lady was right beside Sansa, still in her travel cage as Sansa had grabbed at it tighter than her trunk.

“I’m so sorry, Lady. Here…” She reached to the cage’s lock, finally freeing the grey cat.

Lady immediately began to stretch herself on the dark green grass. At last, Sansa allowed herself to look around. And when dim sunlight, cold wind, and dark green velvety mountains invaded her vision, she knew she was at the right place.

“We’re home, Lady!” There was pure joy in her voice and her eyes felt suddenly very warm while drinking in the view. She had landed atop a small hill, and Winterfell Estate stood proudly in the bottom of it. She saw the tiny little road near the Distillery located on the East side of the property leading to Wintertown; the Wolfwood surrounding the castle like a dark green blanket that went on for miles and miles. 

“We are finally home,” she sighed, her fingers running through Lady’s fur. The cat was finally free to run and hunt on the fields of green she loved so much.

_ Free _ . Just like she was.


	3. Lemon cakes and winter roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:** Sansa and Lady return to Wintertown by portkey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! Thank you so much for all the kind comments. This chapter is full of Stark family love, and Sansa feeling welcome and appreciated. Next one will be Jon's pov and we'll get a glimpse of the boys' friendship.
> 
> I once again would like to thank my beta-reader, Lylanne, for being so kind and helpful.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Oh, and please, let me know what you think!

"Merlin's beard! Sansa Stark, are you wearing trousers?  _ Actual _ trousers?" The high pitched voice of a surprised Arya Stark was the first thing Sansa heard when she entered the Hall of Winterfell Estate, pulling her trunk with Lady at her ankles.

"Well, I hope so. Leaving the house without trousers is one of people's worst nightmares for a reason, you know, " she answered with a grin, "And they're actually quite comfortable. Young witches everywhere around the country have started wearing them, haven't you noticed?" There was humor in her voice, and she meant to be funny, but Arya kept staring at her like she was completely mental.

"Bloody hell!" It was the only thing that escaped her sister's lips for she was too shocked, but soon Sansa heard the heavy sound of footsteps running down the stairs, and then the screaming voice of Rickon echoed through the ground floor.

"She's here!" Her little brother yelped, running right into her for a rib-crushing hug that almost made her loose balance, but that she instantly reciprocated with a delighted laugh, her hands running through his wild reddish hair: as wild as him.

"Who's here?" A deep voice, that she didn't recognize, replied right back from the top of the staircase.

"Morgan le Fay is here to curse us all! What do you mean  _ ‘Who's here’ _ , you idiot? It's Sansa and she's wearing trousers!" Replied Arya, apparently still stunned to see her sister wearing jeans.

Sansa Stark had not been very fond of wearing trousers while growing up, especially during the first years of her adolescence. Eager to be as lady like as her mother, Sansa used to be very concerned with being elegant, pretty, and feminine: always wearing beautiful dresses and fluid skirts. She was all pastel colors and hair bows while Arya was all skinned knees and dirty fingers, always wearing something comfortable that would allow her to climb trees and play Quidditch.

As their father used to say, the Stark sisters were as different as the sun and the moon.

But people change, and grow up, and Sansa learned that she didn't have to be pretty and girly all the time, and there was nothing unladylike in wearing pants. She still liked wearing dresses, of course, that part of her would never change, and there was nothing wrong with that, but now she dressed according to her moods and not to impress someone or to be the perfect little lady, for she didn't have to fit in. No clothes made her more or less of a girl, and she didn't have to work so hard for people to like her. If the ones that mattered really wanted to stay, they would do it because of her -  _ only _ her.

She’d also learned that inheriting her mother's looks could be, in fact, a curse.

_ You look so much like your mother, Miss Stark. Beautiful just like her, maybe even more so. The resemblance is impressive. I knew you were Cat's daughter the moment I saw you sitting in my classroom _ .

"She's here! Sansa is here!" The deep voice announcing her arrival to the whole house brought her back to the Hall and it's owner was right in front of her now. That was when Sansa realised it was her older brother.

"Robb!" There was a crack in her voice, and she sounded emotional, but she was too happy to care. Robb smiled brightly before hugging her, taller than she could remember, with auburn curls and a light copper stubble; so different from the last time she saw him.

"I almost didn't recognize you!" She laughed when he lifted her from the ground, hugging her tightly.

"Wait until you see Bran, Sans. He has a mustache, of five tiny hairs in total!" Robb cheerily went on.

"It stops being funny when you make the joke for the hundredth time, Robb," It was Bran's annoyed voice that joined them this time, the redheaded boy pushing his wheelchair from the corridor. "Sansa! It’s good to see you!" There was a smile on his face when he saw her, and Sansa let go of Robb, taking a few steps towards her younger brother.

Of all her siblings, Bran was the one she was most nervous about meeting again. The feeling that she’d failed him had never left her during those two years, and she had spent too much of her time worrying about what it would be like when she met him again.

Gazing at his young face, and being studied by his piercing blue eyes, she had the impression that Bran understood every single one of her fears and hesitations during those few seconds they looked at each other. He had always been very intuitive of his surroundings, and no one knew if that was just him, or the consequence of being the only one in the family to inherit the sight from the Starks of old. But when he looked at her, Sansa knew she shouldn't have worried so much. She still felt guilty, of course, and she thought then that she would always feel like that. She would find the courage to apologise to him when she had the chance, but that moment wasn't this one, for he opened his arms to hug her and gave her a secret smile that said  _ 'Welcome home' _ all over it.

"I missed you, Bran. I missed you all so much," she said in a muffled voice while hugging him, kneeling near the wheelchair and feeling her eyes getting warm.

"Is that you, my little wolf pup?" Over Bran's shoulder, Sansa saw her mother and father approaching, Catelyn Stark's voice filling her ears.

That was the moment when the sensation of burning eyes gave way to actual tears, and she ran to her mother's arms as if she were a girl of ten, her shoulders shaking while she cried.

She wanted to say she was no wolf. She was not brave and fierce like Arya was, or a natural leader like Robb. She was not wild and strong like Rickon, much less as wise and thoughtful as Bran. She had no wolf inside her for when she needed to show it, she just shrunk and let herself get stepped on. When she needed to growl, howl, show her teeth and claws, and stand up for herself, she chose to stay silent. But the words turned to be sobs, and she could not tell her mother and father that she didn't deserve to be called a wolf.

"No need for crying, little one. Yer home now," her father's solemn voice, deep with his highlander accent, calmed her down, his big and heavy hand caressing her back in soothing circles. With her face buried in her mother's shoulder, Sansa didn't see the worried and silent looks her parents shared.

"Am I the only one surprised by Sansa wearing trousers and how unlike her this is? I am, aren't I?" Arya's voice broke the silence and everyone laughed. She let go of her parents' embrace, brushing her wet cheeks with both her hands while turning around and looking at every single one the six Starks.

It was almost painful to see how much her siblings had grown in her absence, and she wondered how much of their lives she had missed. Sansa herself was a far different person from two years ago, and that meant her siblings were different, too. She realised then she would need to get to know them all again.

After looking at everyone, her eyes landed on Arya. Her only sister, so different from herself. She was surprised to see that she seemed to be the one that changed the most, physically at least. There was no trace of the little girl she’d known, Arya was a beautiful young witch now, with exquisite grey eyes - Stark eyes - gorgeous strong eyebrows, shiny dark brown hair, and a lean and athletic body with the curves of a woman. Sansa smiled at her younger sister, the only Stark she hadn't hugged yet.

"Oh, I missed you, Arya," she said it with fierce sincerity while wrapping her sister in her arms.

Arya was as still as a statue at first, and Sansa thought it was quite fair not being hugged back, for they were never that close and used to fight a lot. She knew she had been mean to Arya while growing up, and her sister had been mean to her right back as a defense mechanism. Sometimes, she wished with all her heart she could go back in time and make things different. That was not possible, however. She had to live with her mistakes and the drift their fights had caused. Still, when she felt her sister's arms around her middle, she dared to hope.

One single tear fell down her cheek and she finally, finally felt like she could breathe again.

"Come on, now. Supper is almost ready, and we could all use some food and light conversation after Sansa's emotional arrival, yes?" Catelyn rushed them all through the corridor while Sansa and Arya laughed nervously before letting go of one another. Her sister gave her a shy little smile that Sansa returned in full glory before suddenly feeling the weight of Robb's arm around her shoulders.

"That's right, and we all want to hear the wonderful stories you have to tell us!" Robb tried to cheer everyone up after all that hugging and crying, and Sansa made an effort not to freeze at the mention of her Beauxbatons years, smiling as a way to disguise it. Bran's perceptive eyes noticed it, but she was grateful he didn't say anything.

Sansa's breath came out in a rush, and she felt herself relax a little in Robb's embrace. At least that hadn’t changed between them.

Safe with her loved ones, she had nothing to fear. She was finally at home, and nothing could frighten her here.

❖

"Welcome back!"

The shouting almost left her deaf, and Sansa practically jumped out of her own skin, looking around with her wide blue eyes, laughing nervously.

The Stark kitchen was full of people that afternoon, and she was surprised her parents and siblings were able to keep everything secret when they’d met in the Hall minutes earlier.

Sansa rubbed her hands over her cheeks again, trying to clean the dried tears, suddenly feeling very aware of her red eyes and puffy face. Her mother brushed her auburn hair gently, a silent way of telling her not to worry about it for she was among family and friends, and Sansa let herself relax once again.

"We baked you lemon cakes!" A very excited Margaery Tyrell jumped right in front of her, long and wavy brown hair framing her heart shaped face.

"From scratch, I might add. Your Mother was very patient while teaching us," said Myrcella Baratheon, gracious and golden. She smiled at Catelyn, who stood right beside her daughter.

"And watching us get her kitchen all dirty. Thank Merlin everything was cleaned with a wave of Margaery's wand." Tiny Jeyne Poole looked at her with a playful smile and Sansa felt like her heart would burst at any moment.

"You three baked me lemon cakes?" She almost couldn't believe they would put themselves through all that work just to welcome her home with her favourite dessert.

The four witches used to be tight knit, until Sansa left for France, despite the fact that they didn't all belong to the same house or year at Hogwarts. Sansa and Myrcella were childhood friends since their fathers were so close. Even though they were the same age, they’d ended up in different Houses. Myrcella was sorted into Gryffindor, Sansa and Jeyne, a muggleborn witch, were both Ravenclaws. Sansa and Myrcella had practically adopted Jeyne in the beginning of their first year at school. The three girls soon befriended Margaery, who was a year older than the rest of them and a Slytherin. It was actually Theon Greyjoy who introduced them, one of Robb's best mates; he was a Slytherin, too.

"Of course, Sansa, dear. Why wouldn't we?"

Margaery looked at her like she had said something absurd, and Sansa chose not to share with them how afraid she was that she had lost her friends after being away for two years. They’d exchanged letters during that time, but it was not the same as seeing each other every day at Hogwarts, and there was always that insecure side of her that feared things would not be the same once they met again. That two years was too much time for their friendship to survive.

"We all missed you like hell, Sansa Stark," Myrcella declared before the three of them group hugged her, and Sansa realised this was the happiest she had been in two years.

❖

The welcoming party went on into the early evening, and what started as simple afternoon tea turned into a full blown dinner party. The long ironwood table that occupied the center of the stone-walled kitchen was now covered with empty bottles of butterbeer, two or three bottles of Firewhiskey - the family drink always had a spot in their gatherings - and some last minute dinner dishes Catelyn Stark had asked the house elves to prepare as members of the family started dropping by.

Uncle Benjen had come straight from the Auror Office at the Ministry by floo network, and he enjoyed a glass of Firewhiskey while chatting with Robb about the last match the Montrose Magpies had won. Uncle Brandon was having what seemed to be a fun conversation with Ned, for his thunder like laughter echoed throughout the room. When he’d greeted her almost an hour earlier, she thought he seemed older and more tired than she remembered, with a new, angry scar that stretched diagonally across his face. He'd said he won it in a pub fight when Sansa asked him about it. Even Uncle Edmure came with Aunt Roslin and their little boy, and Sansa was touched by the fact that they all had the time to drop by at Winterfell Estate just to celebrate her return.

Sitting on one of the wooden chairs disposed around the table and near the fireplace that warmed the room, she was enjoying a lemon cake while silently observing everyone. Robb approached her and occupied the empty chair at her side, his arm draping behind her over the back of her seat.

"Let me guess... lemon cake number fourteen?" He teased her with a grin.

Of all her siblings, Robb was the one she was closest to. Perhaps it was the shared responsibility of being the oldest ones of the Stark kids, since they often helped take care of their younger siblings. Sansa and Arya were constantly having arguments, and Sansa felt like she always had to take care of Bran and Rickon. But the bond she shared with Robb was different. They would often come to one another for advice, to relieve the burden of their problems, and to confide things only the other would understand. They had some kind of silent partnership, because he needed her practical side, and she needed his dynamism. They couldn't perform their roles as older brother and older sister without the help of the other.

At least that was how they used to be.  _ Until two years ago _ , she thought to herself.

"It's number six, actually, and I have no regrets," replied Sansa before having another bite of her favorite dessert.

Although the lemon cakes were made using her Mother’s recipe, they were not as delicious as the ones Catelyn used to bake, but they came quite close.  _ They’re special _ , she thought, because they were baked by her best friends without the help of magic.

"Are you enjoying your welcoming party?" Her older brother asked, looking at her with the Tully blue eyes almost all her siblings inherited, except for Arya.

"Absolutely. There’s even a ribbon with my name on it! You lot shouldn't have bothered, but it was indeed a special surprise," she smiled at him, looking at the floating blue ribbon that said  _ 'Welcome home, Sansy Pants! _ '.

"The Sansy Pants part was Margaery's idea, you know," he said matter-of-factly, looking at the brunette witch, who was chatting with Myrcella. "I had to tone down her ideas a little because she was getting quite creative with her welcoming committee, and we didn't have enough time before your arrival," Robb added, laughing, and Sansa found herself smiling while imagining all the work and effort they had made.

"Well, I loved it. Thank you for helping organize it all," she bumped into his shoulder playfully, the smile not leaving her face.

"I know you've probably heard this a hundred times since you arrived, but we really missed you, Sansa. All of us did," Robb said, while gently running his hand up and down her arm.

She had, indeed, heard that phrase a lot from her family and friends that evening, but hearing it once again gave her a warm feeling that soothed part of her fears of coming back home.

"Do you want me to cry again, brother?" She asked with a laugh.

Sansa used to have problems dealing with her emoticons, since they often were manifested through tears, whether of happiness, sadness, anger, frustration or stress. She used to hate that side of her with a burning passion, but came to accept it after a while. Beauxbatons forced her to conceal it, though, and she was much better now at keeping parts of herself hidden.

"Oh, no, enough tears were shed today," Robb started with a grin. "But now that you're back, the Stark tradition of camping before the summer ends will return to its full glory!" There was excitement in his voice when referring to the tradition their family had maintained since their father was only just a boy.

"I invited Jon this year, and I'll pick him up later this week. He'll be spending the rest of the summer with us, like he always does. I know the Stark camp is sort of a family thing, but Father thought it would be fun for you to have some friends along at your first one once you’re back home. Gendry and Theon will come, too. Arya invited Meera, and Bran invited Jojen, so if you want to invite the girls, I think it will be a good idea."

The Stark camping tradition. She almost forgot that.

The family used to take a few days off to camp the scottish mountains before the summer was over, as a way to spend some time together before months away at Hogwarts. A precious opportunity to enjoy each other's company, and Sansa had missed the last one when she chose to stay in France during the summer. They never invited friends, for it was a family thing. It was not forbidden, of course, their parents never said it was, but it had always been a silent agreement between them.

"Oh, alright. I will talk to them, sure," she agreed, a bit surprised by this change of having friends along, but pleased nonetheless. It was thoughtful of her father to want her near family and friends.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Ned Stark approached them.

"Sansa, if you don't mind, I would like to have a word with you," his voice was serious and formal, and Sansa tried not to worry too much about what her Father wanted to discuss with her.

"Of course, Father," she said, and she readly rose from her chair and shot a shy goodbye smile to Robb before following Eddard Stark out of the kitchen.

Sansa had been closer to her Mother when growing up. With Catelyn, she felt comfortable and at home. They baked, knit, and sewed together, sharing many common hobbies and traits that went beyond the auburn hair and Tully blue eyes.

Arya was as close to Ned as Sansa was to Catelyn, and although Sansa loved, admired and respected her father deeply, they’d never spent a lot of time together. Sometimes it felt like they couldn't maintain a conversation, because they had almost nothing in common. Sansa often promised herself she would try to get closer to him, but it always was exactly that - a promise. Nothing more.

Arya was Ned's little girl, his joy. Sansa would never admit it to anyone, but it sometimes hurt watching them from afar, seeing them laugh and chat and get along so well. She had no doubt that Father loved his children deeply, and equally, but there was always that barrier between them that they couldn't seem to cross.

"I wanted to show you something, Sansa."

They were walking side by side through the gardens of the property. The sun was still up in the sky, like it always was during the long days of summer, but it was beginning to get cloudy, and Sansa thought it would rain soon.

"Do you remember how you always liked to be in the gardens? You prefered to stay out of the Quidditch matches of your brothers and sister and just enjoy the sunlight and the trees," Ned said, gazing at her.

Sansa noticed a few new wrinkles on his face, and wondered how her Father was able to manage so many duties. It didn't seem humanly possible for someone to manage the Wolfswood Reservation, the Stark Distillery, a job at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic and a position at the Wizengamot, the high court of law and parliament of Britain's Wizarding World.

"Yes, of course I remember. They often made me keep track of the score so no one would cheat," Sansa recalled, smiling at the memory of endless afternoons watching Robb, Arya, Bran and Rickon playing Quidditch outside the house while she split her attention between keeping track of the score and reading a book. It had been her way of trying to be close to them.

"And do you remember you once asked me to reopen the Glass Gardens?" His tone was more serious now, his Stark grey eyes studying her closely.

Sansa didn't look at her father, but at the glass structure that stood before them. She hadn't noticed Ned was directing their walk to the Glass Gardens of Winterfell, a place that had marked her childhood.

Sansa Stark had discovered her love for gardening at a very young age. It all started because she liked to have fresh flowers in her bedroom, but soon she begun to appreciate the process of growing and taking care of them, and the peace of mind it gave her.

Yes, she liked pretty things, and that was the main reason she took interest in gardening, but the feeling of getting her hands dirty, watching the little seed she buried underneath the earth grow into beautiful sunflowers, lilies, daisies, peonies, and winter roses, was beyond satisfying. Watching the fruits of her own labor flourishing was a marvelous feeling.

At Hogwarts, her love for flowers translated into taking interest on Herbology, and learning different properties of magical herbs and plants.

At Beauxbatons, this passion tied her to healing magic, a field of study she never thought she would be so enthusiastic about.

"Yes, Father. I remember."

His seriousness was mirrored on her face now, and she wondered why her Father mentioned it. What was the purpose for stopping by at that place during their walk?

The Glass Gardens was a place filled with mystery for her. With a growing passion for flowers and plants, knowing about the existence of such a place, and not being able to explore it, was like torture for Sansa. It had been locked for years, and no one was allowed to enter it. She’d asked her father about it once, and she’d never seen him so miserable. When he asked her not to mention the Glass Gardens ever again, she obeyed him just so she wouldn't see the sadness on his face again.

"It belonged to my sister, but it's yours now."

Putting a large, and old, silver key on the palm of her hand, he smiled at his daughter. Ned Stark seldom smiled, and there was still a hint of sadness on his face at the mention of his sister, but there was also fondness when he looked at his daughter, and Sansa let out her breath.

"Father..." She started, but there was a lump in her throat, and she wasn't able to continue. She looked at him with questioning blue eyes; she couldn't believe what he’d just said. "Father, you're not being serious, are you? I mean, I understand what this place means to you, and I was just a girl when I asked you about it..."

"It's about time this place gives us the happiness it used to," he interrupted her gently. "You and your sister remind me of her everyday, and I don't want to be miserable like my Father was when she went missing. You and your Aunt shared a love for this Garden, and winter roses. I think she would be happy to see it alive again, wherever she is."

Eddard Stark stared at the clear glass walls that reflected the clouds above their heads, like he was seeing something beyond what was just in front of them. He moved his sad grey eyes towards her, and the only thing she could do was hug him tightly like she had never done before.

“I'm glad you're back home, my little wolf pup," his deep voice filled her ears, and a lone tear escaped her eyes.

Perhaps they could be closer now that she was back.

Perhaps they could tear down that wall that separated them for all those years.

Perhaps she could finally fulfill that promise.

Sansa Stark thought to herself that no, this was not the happiest she had been in two years. This was, in fact, the happiest she had been her whole life.


	4. The Knight Bus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:** Sansa finally meets her family again after two years apart. Margaery, Myrcella and Jeyne throw her a surprise welcoming party. Ned gives her the key to the Glass Gardens of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! I want to thank the wonderful readers who left such heart warming comments on the last chapter. Sorry about the delay, but here is a new chapter, this time from Jon's POV. I included a few headcanons of mine about the wizarding world. This will happen a lot during this story, because I plan to add a lot of ideas and headcanons about JKR's universe.
> 
> Thanks again, Lylanne, my talented beta reader, for being so helpful!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

With the sea breeze rushing over his ears, Jon Snow looked over at Belfast slowly fading on the horizon, and felt a nervous feeling in his stomach; that familiar rush of adrenaline that made him feel like he was a boy of nine once again, riding his bicycle down a hill. It was the same feeling he got when he was flying a broom, or right before a Quidditch match; that tingling sensation, the thrill of anticipation that made him feel like his blood was running really fast.

Like every summer, he’d taken the ferry boat from Belfast, in Northern Ireland, to Cairnryan, in Scotland, to cross the North Channel and meet Robb Stark on the other side. Spending part of his summer with the family of one of his best friends had become sort of a tradition since the end of his first year at Hogwarts. Gendry and Theon, the other two members of the foursome that made Jon's closest friends, would often tag along too.

This year, however, they were going to Wintertown a bit earlier in the summer than usual, because Robb had invited the three of them to camp with his family. Jon Snow had never camped before in his life, but he was quite excited about it.

As a muggle-born wizard, the prospect of being invited to do something quite ordinary in the company of a wizarding family, was thrilling. He still remembered his dumbstruck expression when he’d seen Catelyn Stark cooking with the help of magic for the first time, and how it had made Robb's mother laugh. She’d always been kind to him, like all of the Starks had, and watching the different dynamics of that big family sometimes made him wonder what it would be like: to be part of a family as big as the Starks.

It had always been just him and his mom, Lyanna Snow. No grandparents, no siblings, no cousins. No father either. That never bothered him, though. Jon and Lyanna were good together, and had the support of people like Old Nan and Walys Flowers, his mother’s closests friends, who were like grandparents to him. He loved them, and they loved him back, that’s what mattered most.

His mother had given birth when she was just seventeen years old - young, scared and having just arrived at a small village in the countryside of Ireland. That's when she’d met Sister Nancy, an old Nun at the local Convent, who helped her by giving Lyanna a shelter, a job, and a home. Sister Nancy soon became a vital supportive figure in Lyanna’s life while she raised her only son.

After a few years living in the village, Lyanna hoped to find better employment opportunities as a housekeeper in the big city. Old Nan had an old friend, Walys Flowers, who owned a Bed & Breakfast business at Belfast, and gave the young woman his name and address. They left the bucolic countryside and moved to Northern Ireland when Jon was seven years old and, until this day, he still missed the village where he grew up: its emerald hills, rocky coastline, and the smell of the sea.

Jon had always felt a profound admiration for his mother while growing up, and when he was old enough to understand the difficult circumstances that involved his childhood, he admired her even more. Being a mother at such a young age, and all by herself, must certainly have been the hardest job on Earth.

Merlin's sake, he was seventeen too, the same age his mother was when she had him, and he couldn't imagine himself being a father just now.

The thing was, Lyanna had known exactly how to give Jon the best childhood he could’ve had, full of imagination and fun, while having very little.

Their house was small and simple, with just enough space for two people. It wasn't beautifully furnished, because they had bought all the furniture at antique and second-hand stores. The retro aspect of it, and his mother's good eye, gave the house some undeniable charm. 

His clothes were also mostly second-hand, and a little worn out, but he didn't care about it. He often wore dark colors, and firmly believed this helped them pass as alright. 

In addition to all of that, it was Lyanna who used to cut his hair, because the prices the local barber shops charged were absurd. He preferred to keep his dark brown curls long anyway. He let her cut them only on summer and winter breaks, when they got too long, and almost reached his shoulders.

During the summer, he’d always help his mother with paying the bills. With part-time jobs, and helping out Mr Flowers at his Bed & Breakfast, he’d earn a good amount of money that had a nobler destination: helping the family’s finances. 

When came the time to leave Belfast to spend a few weeks at Robb's home before boarding to Hogwarts in September, however, Jon had always felt guilty. It was like he was losing the opportunity to earn money to help her. But Lyanna always insisted on him going, and enjoying his school time with his friends while he could.

Jon thought she was so firm about the subject because she’d grown up too fast when she found herself pregnant, and thus had no time to enjoy her youth.

That didn't make him feel better, but he would always go anyway. Lyanna wouldn't have it any other way, and she wouldn’t let him stay in the house.

_ Or perhaps because you're selfish. _

He often thought that, too.

Trying to brush that thought out of his mind, Jon searched for his pack of cigarettes on the pockets of his clothes. He slipped one into his mouth and lit it with a lighter, the one he only carried with him when he was out on the muggle world. He preferred lighting it with a simple spell: it was quicker and effective, and the flame wouldn’t die out with the wind. Being seventeen, he was allowed to use magic, but never in the company of muggles.

The first time he’d shown signs of magic was quite a funny story. When he’d finally gotten a bicycle from his mother for his ninth birthday, he’d been utterly addicted to the adrenaline rush he got when riding down a hillside street with his neighborhood friends. It was a fun little game they had: the one who was least hurt by the end of it would be the winner. Jon had frequently gotten home at night with skinned knees and elbows, and one day he’d even broken his arm.

There was one night, however, that he had gotten home without a single cut or bruise on his body.

"I can fly, mummy! I can fly!" He recalled screaming at the top of his lungs while entering the house, leaving Lyanna quite confused.

He’d explained to her that his bicycle bumped on a rock, and that he  _ would’ve _ had another broken bone in what  _ would’ve _ been a terrible fall if he hadn't been able to  _ float _ and land softly on the asphalt. Lyanna had been as pale as the wall behind her.

Besides occasionally flying, Jon discovered he was capable of lots of things, curious little accidents that always happened when he was angry, scared, confused or in danger. Like when the drawers of his wardrobe flew across his room when he’d had a terrible nightmare, or when he’d grew back his hair overnight when his mother had given him an accidental bad haircut. He’d had a theory at the time that he was actually a mutant, and had super powers, but when he turned eleven years old, he’d received a letter that said otherwise.

Jon Snow was, in fact, a wizard.

He’d decided that being a wizard was just as good as being a mutant.

In fact, it was actually better, as he later found out.

The fact that Hogwarts had no tuition fee helped a lot. The Ministry of Magic covered the cost of magical education for all young witches and wizards, and there was actually a help fund for students with lower income, and muggleborn students who needed it to buy books and school material. Marking both of those boxes, Jon Snow was grateful for the prospect of not being full of debts by twenty just so he could pay for his education.

He still remembered how utterly shocked he’d been when seeing people running into a brick wall at King's Cross without actually hitting it, disappearing instead.

That was the day he’d met Robb Stark, a young boy with auburn hair dressed in fine clothes that told him everything about the world Jon never thought existed. He was stunned when he’d discovered unicorns and dragons were real, that one could fly a broom, and that the school they were going to had an enormous room where the ceiling was enchanted to look like the sky above.

Nothing Robb’d said to him, however, could have prepared Jon for the sight of it: the feeling of mighty wonder and the sensation that the Great Hall was open on to the heavens.

If he tried hard enough thinking about it, he could still remember the words the Sorting Hat had said to him that night on September 1st.

The cheer from the long table full of students wearing yellow and black had almost left him deaf but he’d cheered just as loud when Robb Stark joined them.

❖

Almost three hours later that day, the ferry boat docked on Scottish soil. With a guitar case on his back, and pulling his trunk behind him, Jon tried to make room for himself between the little crowd that had formed at starboard, waiting for their turn to disembark.

When walking at the bridge that led them to the ground, Jon craned his neck trying to search for Robb and was grateful when he spotted his friend at the docks. When their eyes met, both raised their arms in the air with silly smiles on their faces.

Finding Robb Stark in the middle of a crowd was the easiest task thanks to his auburn hair and his tall stature.

“Oi, mate! Glad to see you’re here and ye weren’t confused about the date, like last year,” Jon teased with a smirk on his face, his irish accent sounding a bit rough. He quickly hugged his friend, patting on his back, recalling the year he’d waited for Robb for two hours at that same port until he’d finally decided to go to Wintertown by himself.

“Be grateful I’ve put little notes of remider everywhere around my bedroom, Snow, or history would’ve repeated itself,” Robb said with a grin, as they both started to walk towards the exit gate.

“Theon is coming from Cornwall to pick up Gendry at Wales and we’re all going to meet up in Edinburgh at night, so we have…” Robb looked at his watch, the one his parents gifted him on his seventeenth birthday on february. The wizarding world had an old tradition of gifting young wizards and witches with family heirlooms when they came of age, and Jon remembered a very excited Robb showing him that very same watch that his father and grandfather used to wear. Jon got a very ordinary and very  _ muggle _ one from his mother on his birthday too. “... three hours to be there. I’ve already got us the silver tickets for the Knight Bus because I fancy having a hot chocolate.”

Jon was about to tell Robb he shouldn’t have already paid for the Knight Bus tickets, because he had the thirteen sicles right there on the pocket of his trousers, but that would bring a common discussion they had about money.

Robb’s family had loads of it, so much that Jon bet they could support themselves for two generations without having to work at all. Because of that, it was common for Robb to offer to pay for little things for his friends: tickets, a beer, a snack. Jon appreciated that, and knew his friend was just being kind, but he would always insist on paying for it himself, or on giving Robb the money later on. His friend wouldn’t always accept it, though, and Jon sometimes had to forcefully push the money inside his pockets or leave them near his things when he couldn’t notice.

“Oh, thank ye. I will buy you a beer or two when we get to Edinburgh,” Jon said, choosing this different approach instead to avoid discussion. Call it pride or call him stubborn, but Jon could perfectly pay for his own things and he always made sure of that.

“Sure thing…  _ Oh! _ The Montrose Magpies won against the Appleby Arrows, did you see it? The Arrows made a good catch of the snitch but the Magpies were a little ahead on score. They have such a great Chaser game,” said Robb excitedly, referring to his favorite Quidditch team of the British and Irish League, the one he so passionately cheered for.

“That’s what I always say, Quidditch is not just about the snitch as people tend to think,” Jon reminded him, raising his eyebrows.

As Captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch Team, and an actual Quidditch nerd, he knew that too well.

“And don’t get too confident about the Magpies, the season has just begun, and they may be the ones who won the Cup last year, but the Ballycastle Bats have a good, united and focused team. Not one full of smug superstars that think they’re better than everyone.” Remarked Jon, mentioning the Northern Irish team he cheered for not only because they came from the country he’d spent most of his life, but also because they were actually good and worked hard to be the second most successful team of the League.

The Magpies were ahead of them on that list, sure, but Jon hated the fact that their players were always involved in scandals, and were often mentioned in newspapers because of their partying. Jon valued focused, talented and united players, and that was the main reason the Hufflepuff Team was so successful at Hogwarts.

“Oh, I’m already sensing you’re going to pull a Jon Snow and go mental about the Quidditch Cup when we get back to Hogwarts,” Robb said, his blue eyes full of humour. He was also a member of the Hufflepuff Team.

“You mean ‘pull an Arya Stark’, right? That’s not fair on me and ye know it,” protested the other, rather defensively, mentioning Robb’s younger sister, who just earned the position of Captain of her house team, Gryffindor, and was also a close friend of his.

“Two birds of a feather. Pulling a Jon Snow is a synonym of pulling an Arya Stark in the dictionary. Look it up, mate!” Said Robb with a grin, drawing his wand when they reached somewhere quiet and away from the eyes of muggles to call for the giant triple-decker purple bus.

❖

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Grenn Knott, and I’ll be your conductor this evening.” Said the wizard in purple uniform, with a bored voice, barely looking at them. He was tall, with dirty blond hair and an auburn beard, and Jon recognized him at once.

“Oi, Grenn!” Jon greeted him with a smirk, and the older wizard’s face lit up when he finally looked at them.

“Snow! Stark! It’s good to see you, lads!” Grenn greeted both Jon and Robb with quick hugs and pats on their backs.

“How is it going after graduation? I didn’t know you were working at the Knight Bus,” Robb said while looking for the tickets on the pockets of his clothes.

“It’s only temporary. I’m waiting for the first test results to know if I got into the Auror Training Program or not. They’re supposed to tell us at the end of the month,” Grenn explained, appearing to be slightly nervous. “Tickets?” He asked, adjusting his purple cap.

Grenn Knott had been a year ahead of them at Hogwarts, and used to play as Beater for the Hufflepuff Quidditch Team. The formation they had during last term’s Quidditch Championship had been fantastic, the better they’ve ever had. The enormous, silver trophy kept at Professor Tarth’s office, their Head of House, was proof of it. But with former members of the team graduating, Jon had to think about Tryouts soon. The idea itself made his skin crawl. Tryouts were terrible.

“They’re here. We’re going to Edinburgh,” Robb said, handing the tickets to Grenn.

“Do you need help with the trunk?” Grenn asked, standing in the doorway of the bus.

“Don’t worry, we got it.” Jon replied with a grin. 

Because it was daylight, the bus was filled with seats, and they shoved the trunk under one of them. There were a few wizards and witches inside, but the bus was empty enough for them to easily find a place to sit.

“Your hot chocolate, lads,” Grenn announced, coming down from a narrow wooden staircase instants later with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. “I advise you two to drink it up as fast as you can. The mugs have non-spilling charms, but…” he shrugged, and Jon and Robb shared an anxious look before nodding nervously. 

A tremendous bang was heard, and Jon was thrown backward on his seat by the speed of the Knight Bus jumping a hundred miles a minute. He closed his eyes apprehensively, expecting the hot chocolate to be spilled all over his shirt by the sudden movement, already sensing the pain of being burned by the hot liquid, but it never came.

“Blimey, that’s a relief,” Robb sighed loudly beside him, and they both laughed.

❖

It was already early evening when they finally made it to Edinburgh, and the sky had that mysterious dark purple color it usually had at dusk. Jon stretched his muscles, feeling slightly strange when setting his foot in the sidewalk after being thrown around the inside of the bus for hours. It was better than Apparition, though, because they had just passed their Apparition test and therefore weren’t confident or experienced enough to ve able to perform it from one country to another.

They could’ve used a Portkey and that certainly would be the wiser, fastest choice, but traveling together by Knight Bus every summer to get to Wintertown had been a tradition for them since their second year.

“Do you think it will take them long to arrive?” Jon asked Robb, who was looking around the street.

Their final destination in Edinburgh had always been Nessie’s Old Tavern, a wizarding pub and inn that was named after the famous monster that inhabited Loch Ness. Before Robb could answer, however, the establishment's front door opened to reveal exactly who they were looking for.

“There you are, lads! It was about time!” Theon Greyjoy greeted them with his signature half smile, hugging each one of his friends with strong pats on their backs.

“Theon was starting to think Jon had lost the ferry boat to Scotland,” said Gendry Waters, who was right behind him, tall and broad.

“I am not Robb Stark, mind ye,” Jon teased his scottish friend with a grin, taking a few steps towards Gendry so he could hug him too.

“Oh, sod off, Snow.” 

They all laughed at Robb, who pushed Jon jokingly.

❖

Gathered around one of the tables of Nessie’s Old Tavern, the four wizards were having steak and kidney pie for supper. They were all laughing and chatting loudly, for it was their fifth or sixth round of butterbeer, but so did every other wizard and witch in the room.

“You know who we ran into in London when the Knight Bus made a stop at the Leaky Cauldron?” Gendry asked while cutting his pie, and Robb and Jon looked up at him curiously. “Ygritte.” He finished, and three sets of eyes turned directly at Jon, who silently took a few sips of his butterbeer.

“She said she was working at a shop at Diagon Alley,” Theon added matter-of-factly, his mouth full of kidney pie.

“She also said you should look for her next time you were there,” Gendry said, raising his eyebrows. His suggestive look said it all, and Jon, with a frown on his face, finally put his mug of butterbeer down the table. There was no liquor left to drink to delay the answer he knew his friends were waiting for.

“Did she?” Jon arched an eyebrow doubtedly.

_ That’s hard to believe _ , he thought to himself.

Jon had dated Ygritte Wilde, a Gryffindor student a year older than him, during most of his sixth year at Hogwarts. It had all begun with her banter and teasing, always trying to get a reaction from him. Jon was annoyed at first, especially when Ygritte acted like she knew a lot more than him about life, only because she was a year older than him. Everything changed, however, when she surprised Jon in the Hufflepuff Locker Room after one of the team’s practices, naked as her name day.

That’s when their fling started. It was never a serious relationship, because Ygritte was all about not wanting to label things. They didn’t have a lot in common, nor talked that much. What they had was mainly physical, but Jon had liked her. Or at least he thought he did. It was passionate and fun while it lasted, but soon the fights became too numerous and frequent to ignore.

Two months before the end of the term, Ygritte broke up with him, claiming she wanted to be free after she graduated from Hogwarts. Jon couldn’t blame her. He’d been thinking about ending things with her for a while, and was grateful she took the lead because that was the first relationship he’d ever had, and he’d no idea how to break up with someone.

So after all their history, it was hard to believe she wanted to see next time he stopped by Diagon Alley.

“I dunno, she sounded like she was eager to see you again,” Gendry added with a shrug, returning to his plate of kidney pie.

“What about Margaery, Robb?” Theon quickly switched the center of the conversation to Robb, and Jon was relieved by that. It was Robb’s turn to have all the eyes pointed at him, and the redheaded wizard almost choked on his butterbeer when he heard the girl’s name.

“What about her?” He tried to be evasive, acting like he didn’t know what his friends were talking about, casually having another piece of his pie.

“What about her? I wasn’t the one who was blatantly flirting with her weeks before the end of the term!” Theon shouted, his laugh sounding louder than normal due to the amount of butterbeer he’d drank. The Slytherin then gestured to the waiter, pointing to their empty mugs so they could be refilled.

Jon thought he should remind his friends to have that one be their last round of drinks if they still wanted to travel by Knight Bus to Wintertown that night. Being drunk inside the purple bus while being thrown around during its haphazard manoeuvres was definitely not a good combination.

“That wasn’t flirting, we’re just… being friendly. ‘Twas just banter, nothing more,” Robb said with a shrug, finishing the rest of his butterbeer.

“’Twas flirting, Robb,” Jon murmured, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

“That was definitely flirting,” Gendry agreed, nodding solemnly.

“Aye, ‘twas flirting, wasn’t it?” Repeated Robb, breathless. His highlander accent always sounded stronger when he was distressed, angry or stressed. “I thought I’d gone mental by noticing that!” He went on, seeming very overwhelmed, like he’d just discovered that the sky was blue and the grass was green.

“Don’t discount the mental theory just yet, mate,” It was Jon’s turn to tease Robb, and they all laughed together.

“Well, we saw each other at Sansa’s welcoming party. Sansa is back, by the way, she just returned from France this week...” Robb started, but Jon couldn’t hear the rest of the sentence because his mind went blank the moment he mentioned Sansa Stark.

He tried his best to ignore the knowing look Theon shot him. Jon wanted to shout at the Slytherin and ask him what the bloody hell that look was about, but he remained quiet and tried to listen to Robb.

“Have you tried asking the bird out on a date or something?” Gendry asked, the only one paying attention to Robb, because Jon and Theon were having a glaring contest whilst the waiter came and filled their mugs with butterbeer, taking away the plates that were empty.

“I bet Sansa’s fit as fuck,” Theon said bluntly, interrupting the conversation. He was still looking at Jon, a cocky smile on his face, but no one at the table noticed that detail.

“Oh, bloody hell, ye git! Have mercy, will ye? Dinnae talk about my sister like that,” muttered Robb, sounding very scottish. He punched the table with his closed fist, the mugs jumping slightly at the sudden movement, and some beer spilled on the wood surface.

He always got bothered when he overheard someone talking about both his sisters like blokes often talked about girls, especially when they were being disrespectful. That was one of the main reasons he got himself so many detentions at school. His way of dealing with this kind of situation was not a very diplomatic one: punch them or hex them.

That was also the reason why Jon felt like his body had been hit by cold, freezing water.

During his summers at Wintertown and his first couple of years at Hogwarts, he couldn’t help but notice that Sansa Stark was beautiful, like every other guy at Hogwarts did. His eyes had often lingered at her figure when she was around, and he recalled acting rather awkward and stupid in her presence, barely able to maintain a proper conversation or to function like a normal human being.

He was only fourteen at the time, and was insecure about how to act around girls, but Sansa had always smiled and showed nothing but kindness, even if they weren’t that close. She was only being friendly and polite, of course. Jon knew that. But he couldn’t help encouraging his little teenage crush on her.

He never did anything about it, though. It was just a stupid infatuation and nothing more, and even if  _ it were _ something more than that, he would never let himself have feelings for Robb’s little sister.

_ No _ . That was absolutely forbidden. Off limits. Completely out of bounds.

When she left for France, he got a bit low spirited at first, but quickly got back to the usual pace of life at Hogwarts. That was enough proof for him that his little crush was meaningless and completely over, and that there was nothing to worry about, so Jon had no idea why Theon had looked at him with such suspicion.

Sansa was back from France, sure, but Jon Snow was not an awkward fourteen year old anymore.

“Lads, why don’t we finish these butterbeers and call in for the night? I don’t think we’re in ideal conditions to be thrown around the Knight Bus, so I suggest we sleep here at Edinburgh and leave early in the morning. What do you all think?” He suggested, quickly looking at his watch. It was already two in the morning, and they’d been drinking since ten. They all needed some rest if they wanted to travel tomorrow without being completely hungover.

“Aye, fair enough,” Gendry said, suddenly getting up from his chair and trying to balance himself. He failed miserably, of course, and the others laughed at him.

“Alright, let’s make a toast, then,” Robb started, raising his mug full of butterbeer in the air. “To our last year at Hogwarts, lads. We’ll soon become grown ups, and we have no idea how to do it, but at least we have each other,” he said solemnly, with a grin on his face.

“Sláinte,” Jon said loudly, raising his mug too. Gendry and Theon did the same.

“Sláinte!” The four wizards shouted together once more, bumping their mugs against one another, the sound of the glass filling the air. Little drops of butterbeer fell on the wooden table, and they soon were gulping their drinks down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, because I loved writing it. About Grenn, I gave him the last name of a mountain clan from the North, but that's not really important.  
> I would love to know what you guys thought about the chapter. Reviews makes my day!


	5. Mornings at Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:** Jon leaves Belfast to travel by Knight Bus to Wintertown with Robb, Theon and Gendry. They make a stop at Nessie’s Old Tavern in Edinburgh for supper and a few butterbeers. Robb tells them Sansa is back from France and Jon remembers the stupid crush he used to have on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! First of all, I'm so sorry for taking so long to update this story. I hope you haven't given up on it, because I certainly didn't! I want to thank [Lydia](https://daughter-of-winterfell.tumblr.com/), this lovely angel who helped me so much by editing this chapter and encouraging me. Thank you so much, darling!
> 
> This chapter is the first part of what ended up being a huge one, so I decided to divide it into two parts. This is also the chapter where the story starts to have different povs, and not only Sansa's or Jon's pov. It was the best way to tell this story, so I hope you won't mind. Next chapter we'll have a full Jonsa scene, but we still get a little taste on this one. Anyway, I hope you're all taking care of yourselves and your loved ones. Please, stay safe and healthy!

Sansa woke up with a start.

She was panting, gasping for air. It was impossible to breathe, as if all the air had been sucked from her bedroom. She was covered in a cold sweat, with her red hair sticking to the sides of her face, and her chest was rising up and down at such a pace that it seemed like she'd just run miles and miles.

"A nightmare. It was just a nightmare," she repeated it to herself like a mantra, trying to calm herself down while the images of her dream rushed through her mind.

She’d dreamed of being back in Beauxbaton’s halls, that haunting feeling of being completely isolated all over again. The girls were laughing at her; making mean jests, and giving her sideway glances whenever she entered a room. She’d revisited the memory of overhearing a conversation she wasn't supposed to: Harry Hardyng, the only person that had been kind to her, bragging about shagging the Stark girl in abandoned classrooms and broom closets. It was followed by the memory of blokes aggressively harassing her to the point of utter discomfort, because he’d made them think she was too easy. 

And then, the sensation of smelling mint had filled her senses. 

She recalled the courteous smiles, followed by praises and compliments about her talent for Charms that would always come with touches that lasted too long. They were subtle at first, but quickly transformed into an intimacy she never agreed to. She remembered his hungry looks traveling over her body, making her feel vulnerable and naked. 

Looks that no Professor should be giving a student. 

Looks that a man his age shouldn’t be giving a young girl like her.

Regret and shame made her eyes feel warm with tears, and then the sobs hit her like a punch in the stomach. She allowed the tears to fall freely, her breaths becoming raspy and uneven, and her shoulders shook as she wept. The more she cried, the greater the pain in her chest grew, a suffocating, agonizing ache that would never leave her whenever those memories crossed her mind.

But then a knock on the door startled her, and Sansa looked up, feeling like a frightened animal.

“Sweetling, it’s me.” It was her mother’s voice, and when Catelyn entered the room with a light shining at the tip of her wand, one of Sansa’s hands flew to her face, wiping away cold sweat and tears.

“Are you alright? I thought I heard your voice,” Catelyn said, quickly approaching her bed and sitting right at her side. 

Some of the candles of the chandelier were lit with a flick of her wand, casting a dim light upon the room. Her mother’s blue eyes, so much like her own, studied her with great care, while she fondly pushed Sansa’s hair away from her face in an attempt to soothe her. 

And just like that, with that one little gesture, Sansa already felt safer.

“What happened, sweetling?” Her mother asked with so much worry and kindness, it took nearly all of Sansa’s strength not to weep some more just for fretting her like this.

“It was only a nightmare, but I feel better now,” Sansa attempted to smile between her sobs, giving in to the comfort of having her mother gently caressing her face.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I… I don’t know,” she reflected, lowering her eyes and shaking her head, her face contorting as she tried to withhold more tears. “I’m glad you’re here, though. I hope I haven’t woken up anyone,” she added, suddenly feeling concerned about disturbing her siblings and her father’s sleep.

“Don’t worry about that. You’re safe now. You’re at home and a nightmare can’t hurt you, Sansa,” Catelyn reassured her with a warm smile.

“Thank you, Mum,” she managed to mutter, resting her face on Catelyn’s shoulder and sighing deeply, feeling the safety of her mother’s embrace.

They stayed like that for a few precious moments. 

Those moments turned into long minutes, and soon Sansa lost track of time.

Catelyn began to hum a song, one hand gently running through Sansa’s long auburn hair while the other caressed her back with soothing circles, just like she used to do when Sansa was a little girl and got scared over a storm.

Little by little, Sansa’s tears stopped falling and her breathing returned to normal, while she slowly started to feel like herself again. The ache in her chest hurt a little less, and all the negative feelings that seemed to overwhelm her moments earlier, soon gave way to a sense of safety and warmth.

“What do you think if we go to the kitchen and fetch ourselves a cup of tea? Or honey milk, if you prefer, just like when you were little. We could chat for a while until you feel relaxed enough to go back to bed,” Catelyn suggested, as they slowly let go of one another.

Sansa gazed at her mother with a smile; an honest one this time. 

Catelyn’s smile mirrored her own while she held her hands, squeezing them slightly.

“I would love that,” she answered, already feeling a little lighter.

❖

Mornings at Winterfell Estate were loud and messy. 

Sansa had almost forgotten about that when, a few hours later, she woke up to Rickon shouting something at Arya in the corridor, right outside her bedroom door. Instead of rising rather stressed from her bed for being woken up like that, Sansa smiled and cuddled herself underneath the quilt, feeling a delicious little shiver run through her body.

She would choose this way of waking up anytime over being frightened by a nightmare.

Feeling better rested after a couple hours of dreamless sleep, Sansa pushed herself up from the mattress and looked around, her old bedroom covered in the faint sunlight of a cloudy Scottish morning. 

Out of all her siblings, she was the only one that hadn’t decorated her room with her house colours. She indeed loved being a Ravenclaw, but yellow was one of her favourite colours, appearing on her quilt, on the velvet armchair near the window - her favorite reading spot - and on the old rug. It made her room seem warm and inviting, contrasting with the wooden floor, panelled wall and furniture, and especially with all the plants she kept.

Two years ago, her room was like her own little garden. The white curtains which hung in front of her tall window had always remained open to provide enough light for the potted plants that stood all over the place, even inside the bathroom. Some of them eventually died without her care though, even with the house-elves watering them from time to time. But now that she was back, she planned on making her room full of green life all over again.

Sansa got up and, after making her bed, rushed to the other side of the room to collect a fresh set of clothes for the day. Comfortable ones, because she would be working in the Glass Gardens.

It had been only two days since she arrived in Wintertown, and she almost couldn’t believe her father had given her the key to the beautiful Greenhouse that had filled her childhood with mystery and wonder. She would have to work hard to restore the Garden to the glory it must have had in the past, but she was excited about it. She wanted to do most of the work before she left for Hogwarts in September, so the Garden could flourish next spring, when she came back home.

Leaving her clothes on top of the armchair near the window, Sansa went to the bathroom that connected her bedroom to Arya’s. She had a shower, brushed her teeth, dressed herself, and arranged her long waves into a messy bun with streaks of hair framing her face before leaving her bedroom.

In the corridor, she ran into a little creature with large, bat-like ears dressed in maroon knit overalls, leaving one of her siblings’ rooms with a vine basket full of clothes floating right behind.

Sansa immediately recognized the house-elf, for she had knitted the overalls herself four years ago.

“Izzy! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since I came back home!” There was excitement in Sansa’s voice when she spoke to the house-elf, and Izzy’s face lit up when she saw her, big blue eyes the size of tennis balls.

“Mistress Sansa!” Said Izzy, who rushed over to Sansa on her tiny, bony legs, “Izzy has come from her vacation! Izzy has missed Mistress Sansa very, very much.”

Sansa smiled and, crouching down to hug the elf, replied, “I’ve missed you too, Izzy. I’m glad to see you again.”

For many centuries, the Stark family, like so many other important pureblood families in the wizarding world, had house-elves as their servants. Those little creatures were the ones that kept the castle clean and organized, some working in the kitchens, others at the Distillery, and they were all immensely devoted to the family, serving them with fierce loyalty.

Stories of many wizarding households mistreating their elves were very common, and Sansa knew there were places where these creatures were treated with brutality. She had seen it with her own eyes in France. 

The Starks, however, were not one of them. They treated the house-elves under their employment with respect and kindness, giving them all their freedom. For those who still wished to work for the family, they were given payment, basic work rights and proper living conditions.

Because of centuries of abuse and historic slavery, giving them the dignity they deserved was the very least they could do. And yet, not every wizarding family wanted to change oppressive social structures that benefited them, not even by doing the bare minimum, and that infuriated her whenever she thought about it.

“Master Robb has just arrived with his friends, Mistress Sansa, and he asked about you. Everyone is in the kitchen. Mistress Stark insisted on making breakfast, but Lennox is helping her,” Izzy informed her, and Sansa raised her eyebrows in surprise and delight at knowing Robb’s friends were already at Winterfell. She hadn’t seen or heard about Jon Snow, Gendry Waters and Theon Greyjoy in a long, long time.

“Thank you, Izzy. I’ll see you later, and I’ll start working on knitting another piece of clothing for you to wear,” Sansa said, getting on her feet. The house-elf always loved the colorful clothing Sansa used to gift her. 

“Perhaps a sweater this time? To keep you warm when winter comes. What do you think about a turquoise one? Maybe I can knit a skirt too,” she suggested, making a mental note to herself to start knitting new clothes not only for Izzy, but all the elves. She tried to remember where she had put her notes with the measurements she had taken of them a few years ago, but she thought that perhaps it was better to take new ones

“Izzy would like that very much, Mistress Sansa. Thank you,” Izzy beamed, her eyes wide and shining with admiration, and Sansa found herself smiling too.

❖

When she arrived in the kitchen at last, Sansa found the room full of voices and laughter.

Lennox, the house-elf, was cooking something that smelled delicious, while at the same time arranging the flying plates and cutlery for the meal. Sitting at the head of the table was her father, reading the Daily Prophet, and her mother had just handed him a cup of tea and a kiss on his cheek. Near them was Arya, who was showing Gendry the latest issue of her favorite sports magazine, with Rickon looking over Arya’s shoulder to get a peek. Near the unlit fireplace, Theon was showing Bran his signed jersey of a Quidditch team Sansa didn’t know, and Robb and Jon were chatting at the end of the table.

“Morning!” Sansa greeted all of them with a smile, and they all craned their necks to see her. Then a symphony of greetings was heard from everyone present. She walked towards her father to place a kiss on his temple, and Ned smiled warmly up at her.

“Good morning, Sansa! How is the Glass Garden going?” Ned asked, his reading spectacles balanced at the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do, but it’s been quite therapeutic, Father,” Sansa said, smiling at him and looking quickly at the newspaper headline:  _ Minister of Magic Robert Baratheon comments on the rise of discriminatory speech against muggle-borns _ . “Can I have it when you’ve finished reading? I would like to take a look.”

Being away from Britain for two years had made it quite difficult for her to keep up with its political and social events. Sansa could only get her hands on newspapers from her homeland from time to time, and not on a daily basis like she was accustomed to. Margaery used to keep her informed in her letters, but even they were slow to arrive by owl post.

Before she came back home, France was living in quite a tumultuous period of their political history. Discussions about the safety and survival of the wizarding world, and the implications of the influence of muggle technology on their way of life, were being held. Many witches and wizards were afraid of the risk of exposure, fearing a muggle threat, and a protectionist approach to their existence was a theme that was present in many passionate speeches, and the President of the Wizarding French Republic was among them.

That same grey cloud had apparently taken over Britain as well.

“Aye, of course! Well, let me know if you need something for the Garden,” Ned replied, taking a sip of his tea and returning to his reading.

A second later, her mother approached her. “Morning, darling! Did you sleep well?” Catelyn asked her with a warm hug.

“I did! In spite of Rickon’s shouting, I did sleep well, thank you,” Sansa replied with a faint smile. She had no intention of complaining or anything, it was just meant to be playful banter.

“He stole my collection of Quidditch magazines and wouldn’t give them back to me. But I think he must be sorry for disturbing Her Royal Highness, aren’t you, Rickon?” Arya said with a smirk, looking at her defiantly from her seat at the table.

“Don’t you start, Arya. Your sister was helping me with something and went to bed a little late, that’s all,” Catelyn intervened with a casual tone before going back to help Lennox with the meal.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” Rickon apologised with a guilty expression on his face.

“It’s quite alright, Rickon, it was about time for me to wake up, anyway,” Sansa said, shaking her head and waving a dismissive hand for the matter to be forgotten. She felt embarrassed about Arya’s comment, and for having woken up a little later than usual, but she didn’t say anything about it. She knew it was only bantering on Arya’s part, and her mother’s intervention had seemed more than enough.

“How are you, Sansa? It’s nice to see you,” Gendry greeted her with a welcoming smile, and Sansa was glad for the change of subject.

“Gendry! It’s nice to see you too, I’m glad you’re spending part of the summer with us,” Sansa smiled back at him and added, half-laughing, “How was the trip to Wintertown? I hope no one puked their breakfast due to the Knight Bus’ maneuvers. With what I’ve heard from Robb, I suspect the driver hasn’t mastered the use of a steering wheel yet.”

“There was puke alright!” Theon Greyjoy said as he entered their conversation, approaching them with Bran right behind him, “Just... not due to breakfast but rather because of... other reasons,” The slytherin smirked, and Sansa didn’t need to know any more to understand what he meant. One look at his bloodshot eyes and the tired look on his face gave her all the information she needed.

“I’m surprised you lads were able to wake up this early,” Sansa arched one eyebrow and crossed her arms, an amused smile taking over her features.

“Oh, that was Jon’s doing. He is the one that keeps us on track,” Theon pointed to the other two at the end of the table, who must have heard something because they quickly interrupted their discussion to look back at them.

That was when Sansa noticed Jon Snow.

He looked a bit older with the stubble he was sporting, and his dark curls were pushed back in a man bun.  _ It suits him quite well _ , she thought. 

Jon still had that broody look to his face, and Sansa came to the conclusion that it gave him a mysterious aura. She recalled getting tired of hearing girls talking about her brother and his friends during her first years at Hogwarts, and how she avoided their questions like a contagious disease. Even Jeyne had a crush on him for a while, but that didn’t count because she also had a crush on Robb at the same time.

“Hullo, Sansa,” he greeted, his voice deep and low.

“Oh, hullo, Jon,” she answered him with a smile, as casually as she could, quickly adding, “It’s good to know you’re all camping with us this summer.”

“Oh, have you spoken to the girls yet, Sansa? Are they coming along?” Robb questioned, and Sansa would have found his interest quite odd in itself. When she noticed Theon trying hard not to laugh, and the look Jon and Gendry shared, however, she knew something was up.

“Aye, they’re all coming. I’m flattered you want me around friends and family that much, Robb. Such a dutiful older brother, looking after your sister like that,” she teased him with a grin and a knowing look, curious about what was going on that she was unaware of. Jon seemed to pick up on that, because they shared a look and he smirked at her.

Sansa then found herself thinking Jon Snow looked nice when he smiled, and that he should do it more often.

❖

"Ned, can you at least try to eat something when you arrive at the Ministry? Only a cup of tea will not keep you on your feet," Catelyn tried to reason with him, when he rushed out of the kitchen while the children were distracted chatting. After climbing the stairs, Ned headed towards the drawing room, with Cat following right behind him.

"I promise I will ask Miss Glenmore to arrange me something, aye?" Ned said, looking over his shoulder to give his wife a small smile, while still moving with haste. He drew his wand, using a silent summoning spell to get his coat and briefcase that lay on an armchair in his office on the next floor.

"I still don't understand what is so important for you to miss breakfast like this. You said you would try to be more present before the children board the train to Hogwarts," Cat continued when they reached the drawing room, and he heard a hint of hurt in her voice. 

This was more than enough for him to stop in his tracks and turn to gaze at this wife.

"I'm sorry, darling," he sighed and walked towards her, resting his hands on her cheeks. Ned suddenly felt guilty, because being more present in his children's life was exactly what he had been trying to do this summer, until urgent matters came in the way. 

"I promise I'll be home before dinner today, and perhaps we can share a glass of firewhiskey before going to bed. What do you think?" He softly rubbed the tip of his fingers along her smooth skin, and she looked at him with those eyes of a deep blue he loved so much.

"I'd like that," Cat smiled, and he found himself smiling too. "But please, remember to eat. Don't work yourself out like this," she added while straightening his tie, and he chuckled because she was right. She usually was.

Merlin, he loved that woman. He loved her and their children with his whole heart, but he felt like he hadn't been able to spend as much time with them as he wanted. 

There was always something to do, some problem to solve, some papers to work on, and when he finally got home after a busy day, he was always so very tired that, some nights, the only thing he could manage to do was walk himself to their bedroom and pass out on their bed with an arm around an already sleeping Catelyn, surrounded by the smell of her hair. 

"I will, I promise," he said, kissing her gently. "Thank you for always taking such great care of me, of all of us," Ned continued, relishing on the sound of her laugh. It was thanks to this woman he loved so much that this family was a happy and united one, with all the additions they had collected over the years.

They were interrupted by his coat and briefcase floating in their direction, and Ned let her go of her to grab them, and was preparing himself to step inside the fireplace when Catelyn quickly said:

"You need to talk to Sansa, though."

Her expression was a serious one, suggesting that this was something he should worry about.

“Has something happened?” he questioned as he put on his coat.

“She seems different, Ned. You’ve noticed it too, the day she arrived. Something has happened when she was at Beauxbatons and she won’t talk to me about it, but I can feel it in my bones,” she explained, sounding distressed. Her lovely face was contorted in a frown and he could see her anguish.

Ned indeed had noticed that something was not quite right about his older daughter since the day she came back home, but he had hoped it had only been Sansa feeling emotional about returning to Wintertown. 

Among his daughters, Arya was the one he was closer to, the one he found it easier to talk to. He loved both of them very much, but Sansa was always someone he couldn’t reach, and he was often too busy to try harder. That was what he told himself, at least, to get rid of the guilt of not trying to get to know his own daughter.

The day Sansa had told him she wanted to be an exchange student at Beauxbatons, was the day Ned realized that he had failed her as a father for postponing this for too long. And when she came back home three days ago, emotional and skittish like a wounded animal, he felt like a failure as a father for the second time in his life, for not knowing how to approach her and make her feel better.

“Do you think it would help if I talked to her?” He asked for his wife’s opinion even though he thought that, if Sansa hadn’t said anything to Cat - the mother who was almost like a best friend to her - she would certainly not say anything to him, and knowing that with such certainty hurt a little. 

“I honestly don’t know,” Cat replied, shaking her head, “Perhaps? I want her to feel safe now that she’s home, but she’s having nightmares, Ned. She was crying so much when I found her last night, and she’s keeping it all to herself. I’m worried.” 

Leaving his briefcase on an armchair nearby, he approached his wife once again, this time to wrap his arms around her in an attempt to soothe her worries. 

“We’ll figure this out, Cat, like we always do. I’ll talk to her. She’s home now, and she’s safe. Everything will be fine, you’ll see,” he said, trying to sound strong and confident, but even he did not believed his own words. 

The truth was, he had no idea what to do.

“Well, at least she seems happy with the Glass Gardens. It was such a nice thing you did, Ned, giving her the key. I know that place brings you painful memories, but I’m grateful for what you did for Sansa. She needed that,” Cat smiled, and he was happy to see her without that worried expression on her face.

“You should’ve seen her face when I told her,” he chuckled, recalling Sansa’s shocked expression and how she had hugged him like she used to when she was a little girl; fiercely and with all her heart.

“Sansa reminds me so much of her. Arya too. In different ways, they are so much like her,” he continued, not being brave enough to say her name. The memory of his sister made his voice sound sombre, and it was like a cold, freezing hand had just painfully squeezed his heart. 

It hurt less than it did when her absence had eaten him alive, but the wound was still there, and he knew it would never heal completely.

Catelyn cupped his cheek and he moved his face into her touch, deciding to brush the subject of his sister to the back of his mind. He didn’t want to start what would certainly be a busy day of work like this, with the pain that thinking about Lyanna brought him. 

“I hope you have a good day at work, Ned,” Catelyn said, shooting him a lovely smile.

“You too, my love.”

He kissed her lips quickly before collecting his belongings and disappearing in the emerald green flames of the fireplace.

❖

“Jon, remind me again why we didn’t stop to purchase a few hungover potions before leaving Edinburgh?” Theon Greyjoy asked, throwing himself on top of the bed near the window. The four young wizards had gone up to the guest room that Jon, Theon and Gendry used to occupy whenever they came to Wintertown. 

“We did, actually, but it was such a bargain, we should’ve known it wouldn’t work. I suppose that bloke fooled us all,” Jon shrugged, getting himself busy with placing his trunk on the edge of his bed. Sitting on the mattress moments later, he felt completely exhausted after the task. 

Jon was so tired, he felt like he’d spent the whole day in an endless Quidditch match. He was thirsty, his head was throbbing, and he felt like he hadn’t slept at all. He still had no idea how he had been able to wake up so early to get them all ready to travel, or how he had managed to act so naturally around the Starks. When Mrs Stark had greeted him, he could’ve sworn she had smelled the liquor on him.

“And why didn’t we go after new ones when those didn’t work?” Grunted Theon, massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers.

“Oh, shut up, Theon. I’ll get your potion, alright?” That was Robb, leaning against the wardrobe with his arms crossed and an impatient expression on his face. He always had a bit of a bad mood when hungover.

“Sod off, Stark. We’re not in front of your mother anymore, so we can all stop pretending we didn’t drink too much last night,” Theon snapped, pushing himself into a sitting position and searching for something in the pockets of his clothes. Jon already anticipated Robb scowling at him for smoking inside, but he was too tired to say something.

“I still don’t understand why you do this, Robb. I mean, you’re not underage anymore, and Mrs. Stark seems like an understanding mother. She knows you’re a normal seventeen year old wizard who occasionally drinks, smokes and shags,” Gendry tried to reason with Robb from his side of the room, while attempting to pull his trunk nearer his bed, but Jon knew his point was of no use to Robb.

“I disagree with the shaging part,” Theon deadpanned, and everyone chuckled. Except for Robb, who sighed and stared at the Slytherin with annoyance in his blue eyes.

“What’s the problem with not wanting my parents to know all this? Sorry for not broadcasting my life to them,” demanded Robb, rather defensively.

It was Jon’s turn to sigh, “You know, Robb…” he began, turning his head towards his friend, “You don’t need to do all this to show to your parents you’re a good son. You’re a decent bloke, you have high marks, and there is nothing wrong with having a bit of fun. They don’t expect you to be a monk,” Jon shrugged.

“What is a monk?” Theon asked, quite confused. 

Jon and Gendry shared a look, both chuckling, because they were the only ones in their group to have contact with muggles.

There was a lot more he wanted to say to his best mate about the subject, but doing it while they were hungover was not the best choice of action. He’d seen seven years of Robb struggling to please his parents in every way, and Jon thought there was nothing wrong in trying to make Ned and Catelyn Stark proud. By Merlin, even  _ he _ had sought their approval on some level, but Robb seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he wasn't willing to let go.

“Thanks, Jon,” Robb mumbled, nodding his head. Jon nodded back, but soon the scent of smoke invaded the room, and they all turned their head to see Theon casually smoking a cigarette.

“C’mon, Greyjoy. At least open a window!” Gendry yelped, before being interrupted by a knock on the ironwood door.

While Robb tried to make Theon put out his cigarette, and complained about the possibility of his mother smelling the room and finding out about it, Jon got on his feet and rushed to the door.

He felt his stomach lurch when he saw Sansa Stark standing right in front of him.

“Uh… Sansa? What are you doing here?” Jon asked, and he regretted it the second the words left his mouth. Did he sound that dumb? He immediately decided that it must be due to his hangover, making his stomach weird and his brain lazy.

“I live here, you know,” she quickly replied with a grin, not missing a beat. 

“Sansa!” Robb greeted her, and Jon stepped aside for Sansa to enter the room, closing the door and following her right behind.

“I don’t want to disturb you or anything. I just thought you lads could use this. If you haven’t got one already, that is,” Sansa said, showing them a little glass bottle with purple colored liquid inside of it. “It’s a draught to cure hangovers. I’ve got some in my collection,” she explained matter-of-factly.

“You just saved the day, you know,” Gendry declared. He walked towards Sansa and grabbed the bottle from her hand, sipping at the purple liquid before handing it over to Theon.

“I’m glad to help. I hope it’s enough for the four of you. If it isn’t, I think I have a little more in storage,” she said, pointing towards somewhere behind her that Jon deduced must be her bedroom.

“Do you actually have a personal collection of hangover potions at your disposal?” Theon asked, clearly shocked. “Sansa Stark, France has  _ indeed _ changed you, after all. Carpe fucking diem, right?” he added in admiration, nodding at her before he, too, took a sip of the potion.

Theon’s remark made Jon wonder the same, and soon he couldn’t get this idea of Sansa being the popular and well-liked girl at Beauxbatons out of his mind.

“I was just about to look for a vial of this little bastard, because Theon was starting to be a pain in the arse, you know,” Robb said, apparently in a better mood, now that he was holding the solution to his problems. He drank the potion, giving the bottle to Jon with almost three fingers left of the purple liquid.

“Thank you, Sansa,” Jon said, glancing at her. He found himself trying to solve her like a puzzle, because he realised that he hadn’t had the chance to know her when she left for her exchange program in France, and he certainly didn’t know her now that she was back. 

“Sláinte,” he said, nodding and raising the glass bottle in her direction. 

Sansa looked back at him with a hint of a smile on her face, and Jon drank the potion in one go, his eyes never leaving her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I would love to know what you guys thought about it.  
> Reviews keep me motivated!  
> Best wishes x


	6. Tea stains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:** Sansa has a nightmare about her time in Beauxbatons and Catelyn tries to calm her down. Cat shares her concerns about Sansa to Ned, who promises to talk to her. Sansa meets Jon, Theon and Gendry for the first time after two years, and she later offers them a draught to cure their hangover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! How's going? Are you all taking care of yourselves? I hope you're all well :)  
> I want to thank everyone who left comments on the last chapter, you're all so kind! <3  
> I also want to thank my wonderful beta reader, [Lydia](https://daughter-of-winterfell.tumblr.com/), who is always so kind and supportive. My eternal gratitude to you!
> 
> Okay, I must warn you this is sort of a long chapter (8k words). It takes place right after the events of the last one. It was supposed to be one chapter, but I've decided to break it into two different ones, and it's also a plot heavy one. We'll follow Ned in the Ministry of Magic and the political issues that will become important to this story. The descriptions of the Ministry is heavily inspired on JKR's chapters. 
> 
> But fear not, because there's some Jonsa! I loved writing their scene and I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Surrounded by emerald green flames, Eddard Stark stepped out of one of the many gilded fireplaces in the Atrium. The enormous hall, with its highly polished, dark wood floor, was filled with wizards and witches wearing glum, early-morning looks as they strode towards a set of golden gates at the far end of the hall, hurrying to their destinations without disturbance. Ned glanced quickly at the high peacock blue ceiling where golden symbols gleamed, moving and changing, indicating the hour, weather, and other important information.

The pops and cracks of the Apparators, the soft  _ whoosh _ of people appearing via floo network in the various terminals that lined the walkway, the noise of conversations and chatty tour guides accompanying loitering tourists, and the tinkling sound of falling water was everything he could hear, making it very difficult for him to listen to the background music. 

Not that he cared to hear it, of course. It started to get annoying during his second week working at the Ministry, and that had been years and years ago.

When passing by the large, golden Magical Brethren fountain located halfway down the hall, he gazed at the banner floating above it. The image of the Minister of Magic had been put up that morning, and Ned chuckled at the moving picture of his friend, Robert Baratheon, looking at the crowd.

He reached a smaller hall near the gates, and stood in the queue to catch one of the various lifts with wrought golden grilles. That was when a wizard in dark green robes and brown hair approached him.

“Morning, Ned,” said Howland Reed. The two wizards had attended Hogwarts together, with Ned being three years ahead of him. Both of them belonged to Hufflepuff and were still good friends to this day. Howland used to be friends with Lyanna, too. Greatest of friends, actually, since one couldn’t be seen around Hogwarts without the company of the other. 

“Morning, Howland! How are Jyana and the kids?” Ned asked, while they waited for their turns to catch the lift.

“They’re great! The kids are excited to camp with you lot. Are you sure you want to spend your vacation taking care of this many children, though?” Howland asked, half laughing.

“Oh, it’s alright. It’ll be good to spend time with them before they board the train to Hogwarts. You know, with so much work, I hardly saw them since the beginning of summer,” Ned said, feeling the weight of his sentence only after saying it out loud. By Merlin, he’d barely spent any time with his children since the middle of June.

Howland must have sensed this, because he put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m sure they understand that, Ned.”

“Sure…” Ned said, not having enough time to find a more elaborate answer because, moments later, it was their turn to step into the lift. The grilles slid shut with a crash and, slowly, the lift ascended and moved. A cool female voice started to announce the levels, being disturbed only by the noise of the chains rattling.

“Anyway, before I forget, Jyana wanted me to invite you and Catelyn for dinner this Thursday. Nothing grand, just food and drinks, if you’re up to,” Howland wanted to know, and as the doors opened to allow wizards and witches out of the lift, several paper aeroplanes in a pale violet colour swooped into, flapping around the lamp swaying from the lift’s ceiling.

“Aye, of course. I’ll talk to Cat. Let me take care of the drinks, though. I’ll bring you some firewhiskey, or something else if you’d like.”

“Firewhiskey is great!” said Howland, being interrupted by the cool female voice announcing that they were on level three, which was occupied by the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, “That’s me. Have a nice day, Ned.”

“You too, Howland,” Ned said with a nod, and the doors clanged shut again. The lift juddered and started moving, and the remaining memos continued to soar around the lamp.

Ned got out at level two, the floor for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which included the Improper Use of Magic Office and the Auror Headquarters. He walked through one of its many corridors of shiny black tiles and thick purple carpets, and was surrounded by little compartments with windows that worked as offices. When he finally reached his own, he was greeted by Elaena Glenmore, his secretary and assistant, and Jory Cassel, his assigned guard. 

It had been Jon Arryn’s decision, as Head of the DMLE, to assign him a trained agent, since Ned was a high ranking member of the Department and a key representative of the Wizengamot. Not that Ned enjoyed the idea at first, but the Cassels were long time friends of the Starks, and if he needed someone he could trust, Jory was definitely the right man for the job.

“Morning, Miss Glenmore, Mr Cassel,” Ned nodded to them, walking into the small waiting room and rushing towards the door that led to his office, “Could you please set up an appointment with the Minister and the Head of the Department as soon as they are available, Miss Glenmore? It’s of utmost importance.” He turned to them, his hand lingering on the door knob, “And could you please arrange me something to eat? Anything, really. I forgot to have breakfast before leaving home.”

“Sure, Mr. Stark,” the witch with brown hair dressed in red robes replied from her desk, “Oh, some paperwork arrived early this morning regarding the Greyjoy case. Jeor Mormont sent them and he said he wanted you to take a look. I left them on your desk.”

“Thank you. If you need me, I’ll be in my office,” Ned said, nodding. He then disappeared into his office to a busy morning filled with paperwork.

❖

"Why don't we play Quidditch?" Robb suggested with excitement in his voice.

They were all lounging in the drawing room that morning. Sansa was sitting on the rug near the coffee table, casually flipping through the pages of a botany book she’d found in Winterfell’s library, while Robb, Arya, Jon, Gendry and Theon played a game they’d all invented, with an exploding snap card deck. Bran had dismissed himself about half an hour ago, saying he had some letters to answer, and Rickon, after much protest against Catelyn’s orders, had tutoring classes with Miss Mordane to attend.

It was just a typical, lazy summer morning.

The boys were still recovering from their hangover, even though Sansa's draught had relieved them of their symptoms. She assumed they would still be feeling a bit lethargic, but from what she remembered from the book's instructions and summary about the potion she gave them, the headache and stomach ache would certainly be gone by now.

She knew there were certain advantages to brewing potions in her spare time when she was still at Beauxbatons. Not having lots of friends during her two years as an exchange student in France meant having a giant amount of time to herself, and that allowed her to focus on her studies more than she ever did at Hogwarts.

Sansa had never been really good at Potions. She used to loathe it, in fact. She loved Herbology, because it was the closest thing to her passion for gardening and botany. She was also very talented at Charms, but Potions had never come naturally to her. It had never been her strong suit, and no matter how hard she worked or how much she studied, every potion would always be a new battle. 

That was actually a nice way of saying she was completely rubbish at it, because one time she’d even melted a cauldron.

But the thing about Potions was this: practice meant everything. 

Tired of being laughed at by her French colleagues, who would never miss an opportunity to mock her for the simplest, silliest things, Sansa used her spare time to get better at the magical subjects that would not come naturally to her, especially Potions. With so many books at her disposal in the library, and the ingredients' cabinet to sneak into, a few months of intensive study were enough for her to see that field of magical study in a different light, and not as something she just needed to endure.

"We don't have enough people, Robb," Theon answered in a bored tone, like he was explaining the obvious.

“We can always adapt the game,” Jon shrugged, frowning in concentration at the cards he held in his hand. “But I’m about to slaughter you here, so don’t go running away now,” he added humorously. 

“Oi, mate! You’re not allowed to do that, it’s against the rules,” Gendry yelped, returning the card Theon had just discarded from his deck. The slytherin grunted, shaking his head.

Sansa was supposed to join them in the next match, when they would explain to her the rules of their game, but she was finding it quite amusing to watch them from afar, while absently flipping through her book. Their shouting, laughing and the sound of cards exploding startled her once in a while, but she wasn’t bothered by it. It was nice to be in their company.

"Do you want to play Quidditch with us, Sansa?" Robb asked, gazing at her from his seat at the table.

Sansa looked up at him with a smile. Even though she didn’t like Quidditch as much as he did, she thought it would be a fun thing to do. She opened her mouth and was about to answer him when someone else did it first.

"Sansa doesn't play Quidditch. She doesn't even know how to fly a broom, for Merlin's sake," Arya said bluntly, and Sansa’s smile slowly disappeared from her face. She tried not to look too hurt by it.

Her sister wasn't wrong. The only time Sansa had touched a broom was in her first year during flying lessons at Hogwarts, and she was so bad at it, she’d barely passed her exams. She’d never said that to anyone, though, not even her friends. She’d felt really embarrassed by it at the time, for being so bad at something all her siblings were practically born doing.

But what stung her the most was not her sister broadcasting that to everyone in the room. 

It was actually  _ how _ Arya had said it, like she didn’t want her to spend time with them.

If the Sansa from three years ago had listened to what she was about to say next, she would think that  _ this _ Sansa was positively mad. But one of the main reasons she had for coming back to Wintertown, was how terribly she had missed her family, and how she had missed Arya, too. She came back with the burning desire to be closer to her sister, to overcome the rift between them and recover their wounded relationship, and perhaps that's why she chose her next words deliberately.

"You could teach me," she said, gazing at her sister so Arya would know she was talking to her. "You could teach me how to fly a broom. You’re obviously good at it, or they wouldn’t have made you Team Captain. Is there any better way to learn than from the best flyer of the family?" Sansa said with a hint of a smile on her face, and for a brief instant, Arya looked like she had been taken by surprise.

"I could," Arya replied, cold grey eyes studying her. "But I don't want to. Besides, it would be like teaching a troll how to tap dance," she croaked sarcastically.

"Arya," Gendry called her name, but the witch only gave him a cold stare.

"That was a bit harsh, Arya," Robb intervened, frowning at the younger Stark girl.

"It's alright. I have a lot to do in the Glass Gardens anyway, so..." Sansa said, trying to school her features so she wouldn't show her hurt on her face. She tried her best to keep her expression neutral, lowering her eyes and loudly closing the botany book she had been reading.

"We could start a broom race. It would be a good way for Sansa to get used to flying. It’s actually a great way to feel comfortable with it, knowing it’s you that’s in control, and not the broom." It was Jon's voice, and Sansa looked up to see his eyes on her. He’d said it with such conviction she almost believed he would indeed spare the time to try and teach her, and that he didn’t say that out of pity, or to make things less awkward.  _ Almost _ .

"Thank you, Jon. Perhaps another time. I really have a lot of work to do in the Garden." She attempted to smile at him, but only managed to pinch her lips together very tightly. "I hope you all have fun, though. I'll see you all at luncheon," she added, rising from her sitting position on the ground and grabbing her book, making way to the door and feeling all eyes glued to her back.

Outside the drawing room and with the door as protection, she closed her eyes and breathed heavily.

"That's right, stick with your stupid garden," she heard Arya's muffled voice say.

"I swear to Merlin, Arya…I’m trying to let ye two solve whatever problems ye have between ye, but it’s getting quite difficult, ye know.” Robb sounded impatient, and the sound of a chair being harshly dragged was heard.

Before he could reach the door to the drawing room, however, Sansa had already rushed through the corridor, not willing to stay.

❖

“You don’t understand, Ned. You don’t know what it’s like to be in my position. There is pressure from all sides! I can’t risk losing support at the Wizengamot for this” Robert Baratheon snapped, and even though he was not shouting, his deep voice sounded like thunder in the beautifully decorated office of the Minister of Magic.

The office was oval shaped and the windows allowed a view of the Atrium. The walls were of the same lustrous black tiles of the rest of the building, as well as the polished dark wood floor, and thick purple rug. The high vaulted ceiling and the columns had golden trimming details, and the walls were covered with portraits of wizards and witches that had occupied the post in the past. At the Minister’s desk, were two framed photographs: one of his wife and one of his three children.

There were three wizards present in the room: the Minister, the Head of the DMLE, and a high ranking member of said Department. 

The discussion was being held mainly by Robert and Eddard though, for Jon Arryn stood silent for a while, looking out of the window that faced the Atrium with his hands behind his back.

“Robert, this is about standing up against a dangerous speech that encourages prejudice. You’re the Minister.  _ You _ , of all people, should say something about this. Wizards and witches of muggle heritage are part of wizardkind too, and you, as their Minister, should protect them against this. Not abstain yourself by avoiding the issue,” Ned countered. His frustration was obvious in the way he was gesticulating while talking, and how he shook his head disbelievingly. 

Eddard Stark was known for being a man of few words. His solemn face and dark grey eyes gave him the reputation of being cold and judgmental. He was reserved and, outside the familiarity of his home, only spoke when he had to, exactly what he had to. Because of that, if someone looked at him now, they would probably not recognize his distressed expression and how he spoke with passion and eloquence. Even his speeches during trials at the Wizengamot didn’t have half the intensity he carried with him now.

“This would be the perfect opportunity for you to…” he started once again, but Robert interrupted him.

“It’s not my job as Minister to have an opinion about this. It’s too much of a delicate matter,” said Robert, sitting in the armchair behind his desk.

Dressed in black robes of fine fabric and velvet, the Minister looked as powerful and as strong as a leader should. He was tall and broad, and although the years had given him a little extra weight, his silhouette still resembled the muscular man he had been in his youth. But at that moment, Ned thought the resemblances stopped there.

“You finally won the election after years and years under Aerys Targaryen’s rule as Minister. We wanted to make things different and build a better government, and so I supported you. And for what? For you to expose several people in our community to that old animosity because you want to be neutral?” Ned said, still quietly, but with a commanding voice.

The two wizards had been the closest of friends for most of their lives, and it had usually been Ned’s life mission to put some sense into his stubborn friend. 

Nothing, however, compared to this. 

He usually didn’t need to emphasize the obvious. He normally didn’t have to remind him of how they  _ both _ wanted to make some difference in the world when they were younger. That’s why they started working at the Ministry of Magic in the first place.

“It would start a crisis!” Robert shouted, punching his desk with both of his fists, “And I would risk my position as Minister. I only won the election at the time because my opponent was a muggle-born, and wizarding society is not yet prepared to have a muggle-born Minister. You remember what it was like!” he said in an accusatory tone, pointing a finger at him.

“He was found dead at his own house after the election results, and even though the Aurors’ investigation concluded it was suicide, people said he deserved it for  _ daring _ to campaign in the first place. You were there, Ned! You heard the whispers and gossip too. Don’t you remember them saying he should’ve known his place?” Robert’s temper was rising, and Ned knew this, because his friend assumed an aggressive stance, with his elbows propped up on his desk and a vein popping on his forehead.

“Still…” Ned tried to argue, but Robert interrupted him once again.

“I don’t like Rhaegar Targaryen, you of all people know this. There is nothing wrong with expressing political opinions. He wasn’t attacking the government or the Ministry, and it’s better that it stays that way. If the government makes a statement about this... ”

“You’re quite right. He wasn’t attacking the government or the Ministry.  _ His speech attacks muggle-borns _ ,” Ned deadpanned, laughing bitterly, “Hate speech masked as opinion is not…”

“An opinion shared by most of wizarding society. It has always been like this and it’s not my job to change that,” said the Minister loudly.

“I simply can’t believe I’m hearing this…” Ned said incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You’ve always been an idealist, Ned. You and…” Robert stopped suddenly, choking on his own words and frowning deeply.

Ned knew exactly whose name he couldn’t say.

For one moment, Ned thought his best friend wasn’t worthy of even saying her name out loud.

“Politics is a complicated matter, Ned,” Jon Arryn spoke for the first time, facing them from his place near the window. Both wizards looked up at the older man who was like a father to them, and were ready to hear what he had to say.

“The Ministry of Magic has to show strength and be in control. We can’t do that with high ranking wizards frowning upon the Minister for showing support of muggle-borns,” he elaborated, his voice cold and collected while he walked slowly around the office with his hands still clasped behind his back. He looked older and more tired than Ned could ever remember, with deep lines running around his eyes and mouth, and a greying hair and beard.

“Robert is right. It would start a crisis, and we can’t take that risk. Robert could even be pushed out of office because of that, and all our efforts would be for nothing,” he said, quietly and solemnly, his eyes shifting from Eddard to Robert. 

Whatever Ned was expecting, it certainly wasn’t  _ that _ .

“Is that truly what you think?” Ned asked, and there was a hint of despair in his tired voice. His gaze shifted from the man he considered as a second father, to the one he saw as a brother. “Is that really how you are choosing to approach this? Is this your final decision?” he inquired once more, staring at Robert with a silent plea in his grey eyes.

Robert Baratheon remained deep in thought for several moments, frowning with his hands clasped in front of his face.

“As Minister of Magic, this is my decision, Ned. It’s better to stay out of it,” Robert said, and there was a finality in his tone that indicated that the discussion was over.

Ned shifted his weight uncomfortably, placing his hands in the pockets of his robes. He stared at the purple carpet, and exhaled wearily.

❖

While headed to the castle's family wing with her botany book in her hands, Sansa passed by a big window and almost jumped out of her skin when she heard the sound of something hitting the glass. Looking for the source of it, she spotted a barn owl outside, flapping its wings in the grey morning sky. 

She walked towards the window to unlock it, and the bird swooped inside, soaring across the corridor. It dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying before turning gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the window’s glass as it flew off across Winterfell’s grounds.

With the large envelope in her hands, she recognized Margaery’s elegant handwriting, and smiled to herself. It was the reply from her last letter to her.

Putting the envelope away amongst the pages of her book, Sansa rushed to her bedroom where she could read and write her response in peace. When she reached the corridor that led to her and her sibling's bedrooms, however, she slowed down, stopping near the closed door to Bran’s. 

The muffled sound of music and something falling on the wooden floor confirmed that he was inside and, without putting much thought into it, she knocked.

“Come on in!” Bran shouted, and Sansa pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Bran, I just..." she began awkwardly, and then stopped, because she didn't know exactly why she knocked. 

Sansa had wanted to talk to Bran since she’d arrived in Wintertown a few days ago. Even though her younger brother had been nothing but kind to her since she’d returned home, she felt like she owed him an apology. Explaining to him how she’d regretted leaving her family at such a delicate moment to pursue her exchange program at Beauxbatons was an important thing for her, and she needed him to know that she’d thought about them everyday. 

That she’d thought about  _ him _ everyday. 

She’d been young, foolish and selfish, caring about nothing but her own dreams, and she’d not been as considerate as she should've been about what happened to him. For that, she felt terribly ashamed. Although Bran showed no signs of resentment, the guilt never left her side, and regret ate at her from the inside out.

She wanted him to know all this, because she would never feel at peace until he did. She planned on telling him, eventually, but Sansa just didn't know when, or how to put it into words. 

For a brief moment, she’d regretted knocking on his door on impulse, without having the faintest idea of what to say yet.

She smiled hesitantly and entered the room, holding her book tightly against her chest with one hand, and closing the door behind her with a soft sound.

Bran's bedroom, like all of her sibling’s rooms, had a similar size and layout to her own. There was a chandelier lit by candles, and a bed with an ironwood headboard stood to her right, with an old wooden dresser across from it. On the other side of the room, his study desk and telescope sat in front of the tall window with blue velvet curtains, allowing a view of Winterfell’s gardens. The walls were decorated with Ravenclaw banners and Quidditch posters, and there were books everywhere, scattered piles, slumping on the floor and on every available surface.

"You're not disturbing me, Sansa," Bran said calmly, turning down the volume of the old wireless radio.

“What’s this?” Sansa asked, walking towards one of the curious and delicate looking silver instruments. The room was filled with other various devices, different artifacts and trinkets that she hadn't seen before.

“This…” he started, pushing his wheelchair towards her and collecting the object, “...is my second attempt to build my own lunascope. I’m trying to improve the one we all know and use, adding more functions, you know?" Bran said it casually, shrugging slightly while studying pieces of the lunascope in his hands. He continued: "This place is filled with a lot of unfinished projects I have yet to get back to, but if you want to take a look at something I’ve finished, there’s this orrery right here."

"Bran, this is..." Sansa started, opening and closing her mouth a few times, thinking about what to say. She was lost for words, however, and just studied the piece with great care. It was a model of the solar system, and she observed that the planets were painted by hand, and that he had made sure to represent the moons: tiny little dots she had to get very close to be able to see. They moved slowly, simulating a dance that lasted since the very beginning of existence.

"The planets are moving with magic, but there is also muggle mechanics involved. It took me more than a year to build it. What gets in the way of my projects is that we're only able to use magic when at Hogwarts, so that's a problem. I try to do all of the studying part during summer and holidays, though," Bran explained, running his hand through his wavy auburn hair and adjusting the glasses he sometimes used to read.

"This is brilliant, Bran. It's impressive. It really is," she finally said in a proud voice, her eyes fixed on him.

"It's nothing, really. I just enjoy trying to build things, much like you and your plants," Bran shrugged with a bit of a smile.

"Still, it's quite fantastic. What else did you build?" Sansa asked, genuinely interested, looking around to glimpse at all the other artifacts and trinkets in his collection, not knowing what they were.

Bran spent the following thirty minutes showing her some of his projects. There was a self stirring cauldron that seemed much more complete and customized than the standard ones she saw in wizarding shops; an oversized omniocular that he’d built himself to help him during Quidditch matches when he acted as commentator at Hogwarts; a modified radio that could replay songs or programmes from the Wireless Wizarding Network; an enchanted tea set that served him tea exactly the way he liked it when he was too busy to do it himself; a special kind of sneakoscope that would alert him to pranks, since Arya, Robb and his friends enjoyed pulling ones from time to time; and even an ongoing project he had with Gendry of a broom design to fit his needs.

And during those twenty minutes, she paid attention to every little thing he showed her, not being able to hold back her impressed and surprised gasps at his genius ideas.

"But you didn't come here to hear me talking endlessly about my projects, did you?" Bran eventually asked, looking at her with curiosity.

"How do you do that?" Sansa asked softly, putting a strand of hair that had come loose from her messy bun behind her ear. She gazed at him and frowned thoughtfully, like she was searching for something.

Interest flashed in Bran's Tully blue eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Being so intuitive, and observant and sensitive about everything... knowing things without needing them to be said out loud," she elaborated in an undertone.

"I don't know," Bran replied honestly. "Perhaps it's part of being a seer, or perhaps not. I'm not a legilimens, so I can’t read people's thoughts. I'm just good at reading people, at observing them and their body language, at feeling what they’re feeling. Much like a wireless radio, for example, capturing everything around. Sometimes it’s quite overwhelming, to be honest," he said, sending her a very piercing look. 

Sansa felt like he was looking right through her.

"For example, I know that something is troubling you. You seem... odd, different, not quite like yourself. People change, mature and grow up, and we obviously don't stay the same forever, but this is not the case. You seem distressed and guilty, like you're carrying a burden you can't let go of," Bran said calmly and with a serious expression.

Sansa gasped and tried to look away from her brother's gaze, not wanting to meet his eye. Sitting at the edge of his bed, she found herself studying the pattern of the bedding. Nothing was said for nearly a minute.

"I'm sorry I left, Bran. I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. It must have been hard to come back to Hogwarts after what happened, and I'm so very sorry for not being at your side when you needed it the most," Sansa finally said, her voice sounding raspy with emotion. She felt the familiar sting in her eyes that indicated that tears were close.

"I feel terribly guilty and ashamed for being so selfish, so inconsiderate. If I could go back in time, I would stop myself from going to France. I would remind that stupid little girl with foolish dreams that family is what matters the most. I failed you, Bran, and I'm sorry," she continued, the words she had kept inside for so long spilling out of her mouth so fast she barely breathed between them. 

"Could you ever forgive me?" Sansa asked, her voice barely a whisper, but Bran just kept looking at her with a stunned expression on his face. He said nothing for a while, and Sansa felt anxiety tightening her chest every second he stared at her without saying a word.

"Sansa, there is nothing to forgive," Bran finally said, shaking his head, as though it were obvious. "Besides, that's not what I meant. What I wanted to say is... I know that something happened to you in France. I felt it the moment you hugged me when you came back home. I don't know exactly what, but I'm certain it's troubling you. You can tell me when you feel comfortable and ready to share it, but you must know you don't need to carry this alone," he continued, looking at her with affection in his blue eyes. 

"Oh," she said after a moment, completely taken by surprise. Bran reached for one of her hands, giving it a gentle squeeze as a way to comfort and reassure her.

Sansa sighed, and a lonely tear went down her cheek. 

She felt like an elephant had taken one of its feet off her chest, and it was like this was the first time she had breathed since she came back to Wintertown.

"Thank you, Bran," she smiled faintly.

❖

With a flick of his wand, the kettle filled itself with water from the tap, and flew towards the enormous Victorian stove the Starks had in their kitchen. A simple summoning spell saved him the trouble of looking for the pot, mug and tea leaves container in the cabinets, and he reminded himself to grab the milk from the bewitched cabinet with chilling spells, where the Starks stored foods and drinks that needed a colder temperature, and while he waited for the water to boil, Jon leaned over the counter and looked out of the window.

It was dusk, and supper had been served over two hours ago. Jon had forgotten the last time he had eaten that much, because after hours and hours playing card games with Robb, Arya, Gendry and Theon for their little tournament, and collectively deciding to skip luncheon - sticking to sweets, snacks and pumpkin juice for the whole day - by dinner time, he was completely famished. 

A cup of tea was everything he needed right now, so he could have a read of the morning and evening editions of the Daily Prophet before going to bed. As a subscriber, his morning edition was delivered to him by owl post as soon as he arrived at the Stark household. When his eyes landed on today’s headline, however, he decided to delay his reading for when he would be completely alone, and could give it his full attention.

Distracted by his own thoughts and the distant silhouettes of the trees outside the window, he barely noticed when the grey cat came up the counter he was leaning against, and he nearly jumped when the animal announced its presence with a meow.

“Well, hullo to you too, young lady,” Jon said, half smiling at the cat that studied him with bright amber eyes, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be with Sansa?” he asked, and Lady meowed back at him like she was answering his question, which made him laugh.

“Come over here,” he called to her with a wave of his hand, extending his finger towards Lady as encouragement. The animal approached him slowly and elegantly, with curious yellowish eyes. Lady shyly bumped his finger with her nose first, and then gently rubbed her cheek against his hand in a silent and friendly way to say hello. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Lady. I’m Jon,” he greeted the cat with a grin, and when he ran a hand over her head, she purred in appreciation. Jon picked Lady up, and caressed her ears and neck while she licked his wrist and rubbed her cheek against his hand again.

“She likes you, y’know,” remarked a voice, and when he looked up with Lady still nestled in his arms, he saw Sansa leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded and a hint of a smile on her face.

“She’s just a friendly cat, that’s all,” he chuckled, running his hand through Lady’s grey fur.

Sansa shook her head. “That’s not true. She’s quite picky about who she allows to pet her.” 

The witch approached him, and Jon noticed her long auburn hair was wet from a recent shower, and that she was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a grey Boggart Brothers t-shirt with a mustard yellow knitted cardigan over it.

“Well, then I must be a lucky bloke.”

“Very.”

Both of them laughed and, for a while, they were quiet. The embers in the fireplace were nearly out, and when the whistle of the steaming kettle was heard, Jon gently let go of Lady.

“Fancy a cup of tea?” he asked, looking over his shoulder to Sansa, who smiled at him.

“Oh, thank you Jon, but I don’t want to bother you. I can make one myself.”

“Rubbish,” was his answer, as he summoned another mug with a silent spell. 

Pushing his sleeves up to his elbows for comfort, Jon silently warmed the tea pot with the boiling water, then emptied it over the sink. He added in the leaves and poured the boiling water, doing this without the help of magic, for it had always been such a ritual for him, he preferred to do it this way. Sansa observed him closely during the process, and Jon was surprised by how comfortable the silence was. He didn’t feel the need to fill it, and he didn’t feel awkward or anxious like he sometimes used to with certain social interactions.

“How has your summer been, Jon?” It was Sansa who spoke first, while they waited for the tea to brew. Lady was in her arms now, and she absently stroked the cat’s fur. 

“Alright, I guess. I worked at a muggle pub in Belfast for a few weeks, went to a Quidditch match with the lads, but nothing more than that,” he shrugged, leaning against the counter behind him with his hands inside the pockets of his trousers. 

“How was France?” Jon asked, and he noticed Sansa seemed a bit uncomfortable with the question, as she shifted her weight and breathed heavily.

“Not as I expected it to be,” she said with honesty, and Jon nodded slowly and remained silent, waiting for more. “I had all these expectations about going to Beauxbatons, and it all ended up being nothing like how I’d imagined it to be,” Sansa continued, studying the teapot resting on the counter between them with an indecipherable expression in her face. 

Jon felt as though he was hearing something that had not been uttered out loud yet. He was about to say something when she added, chuckling: “I’m sorry, Jon, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“It’s alright, Sansa. You can say what’s on your mind,” Jon said at once, trying to encourage her with a smile, but not wanting to pressure her to talk about something she felt uncomfortable sharing with him. They were not friends, and he was almost a complete stranger to her, after all.

“It’s just…” she tried once more, frowning and hugging Lady closer to her, like she was searching for some sort of comfort. Sansa opened and closed her lips a few times, breathing heavily at each attempt to elaborate on her thoughts, and Jon waited patiently for whatever she wanted to say. Instead, she chose to brush it off with: “Oh, I think the tea is ready, Jon.”

Nodding slowly and deciding to change the subject and not to press her any longer, he took his hands out of his pockets and approached the counter once again.

“Do you like your milk to go in second, or do you prefer to put the milk in first?” he quietly asked. 

“In second, please. Just a dash.”

Jon nodded, and proceeded to pour the tea into the mugs, catching the leaves with a little silver strainer. He added the milk, concentrating on not adding too much into her mug.

“Sugar?”

“Two teaspoons, please.”

He followed her instruction, stirring her tea and leaving his without sugar, as he preferred it. With the two cups of tea ready, he went around the counter that separated them, and leaned against it, right beside her.

“There you go.” Jon handed her the mug with a grin, and she let go of Lady before grabbing it.

“Thank you, Jon.” She gave him a smile, blowing on the tea before taking a sip. He studied her and waited patiently for her verdict, noticing that, this close, he could smell her shampoo and see she had a few freckles around her nose and cheeks. 

“It’s just perfect,” she announced, and Jon smiled proudly before taking a sip from his own mug.

“So you’re a Boggart Brothers fan, huh?” he asked a moment later, and she pushed away her knitted cardigan to look down at herself and check her own t-shirt.

“I am! I went to one of their concerts when I was in Paris last summer. It was…” she stopped talking, her face contorting into a frown, like she was deep in thought searching for the perfect word to describe it, “...an ethereal experience. Do you like them?”

“Do I like them?” Jon chuckled, and she looked at him with genuine interest, “They’re my absolute favourite. I’d kill to go to one of their concerts.” He didn’t mean to say the last part, but it was too late now. 

In the Snow household, every penny counted, and they simply couldn’t afford certain luxuries such as buying tickets to a rock concert. There were a few Boggart Brothers’ albums in what was a combination of his friends record collections: a crate full of music albums from different genres they kept inside an abandoned room at Hogwarts they called The Wolf's Den, that they brought back with them at the end of every term. Listening to his favourite songs whenever he wanted would have to suffice for now.

“Perhaps you’ll go to one soon enough. They’ve announced a few concerts all over the UK over the holidays,” she said with excitement in her voice before taking another sip of her tea.

“Perhaps…” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders, not wanting to upset her by saying he probably wouldn’t be able to.

The two of them remained silent for a while, the comfortable kind where he didn’t feel the need to say anything. He could hear the wind blowing its spooky melody outside the house, and some footsteps on the first floor. They drank their tea like this for a few moments, and Jon had almost forgotten he’d intended to take his tea upstairs to the library, so he could finally read the newspapers alone and in peace.

“Listening to them reminded me of home. That’s why I went to their concert,” Sansa admitted, and he turned his head to gaze at her. 

She was holding her mug over her face with both hands, hiding her mouth, and her blue eyes were the only thing he could see above the whiteness of the porcelain. She took another sip of her tea, and Jon remained silent, because even though he wanted to ask her about her time at Beauxbatons, his brain was yelling at him that it was not a good idea. That was the sort of thing someone would share with a close friend, a confidant. Not with your older brother’s best mate, with whom you had just had your first real conversation.

“Anyway, I’m a bit tired from working on the Glass Garden the whole afternoon, so I should get going,” Sansa sighed. “Thank you for the perfect cup of tea, Jon,” she smiled quickly at him, calling to Lady to join her.

“Night, Sansa,” he nodded with a grin, his cup of tea still in his hand while the other rested in his pocket.

“Good night,” she said over her shoulder, with Lady at her heels.

Sansa started to leave, and he silently watched her, but then an urgent need to say something passed through him like an electric charge.

“Sansa!” He called before she disappeared around the corridor, and she turned around to face him with a look of curiosity. Jon let out a breath, looking at her carefully.

“I’m sorry about what happened in France.” 

She seemed stunned by his words at first, like she wasn’t expecting them at all, and she raised her eyebrows in surprise. 

He had no idea if something had  _ really _ happened to her in France, or if she had just missed her home, her family and her friends, but he wanted to say he was sorry for things not turning out the way she expected them to. 

A few months later in the future, when she would eventually tell him everything about those two years at Beauxbatons, Jon Snow would remember this night. 

He would remember it, and he would give everything he had to have the power to go back in time to  _ this _ moment, this  _ exact _ moment, to do only one thing: to hug her and take all her pain away. 

Not to go to Beauxbatons and punch Harry Hardyng in the face. Not to see Petyr Baelish perish at the end of his wand. He would certainly want those things, but he would quickly brush them aside because  _ she _ was everything that mattered. The only one that mattered, not them. 

But at the time, he had no idea, and so he didn’t hug her or hold her like she desperately needed him to. 

“Thank you, Jon,” Sansa smiled faintly, nodding slowly before leaving Jon alone with his cup of tea and the scent of her shampoo.

❖

Jon was looking attentively at the dark ink letters in the newspaper in front of him. He was in Winterfell Estate’s library, with the last edition of the Daily Prophet and his cup of tea as company. 

The main article of the morning edition was an interview with Robert Baratheon, Minister of Magic. The wizard talked about some of his achievements as the political leader of the wizarding community of Britain and Ireland, but that was not what captured Jon’s attention.

For the first time, the Minister commented on the rise of discriminatory speech against muggle-born witches and wizards that had grown stronger over the last couple of years.

As a muggle-born wizard himself, hate speech masked as opinion, with words that directly affected his very own existence, left him outraged. How could it not? His years at Hogwarts were marked by prejudice, often disguised, and sometimes brazen. 

It was always right there: when a couple of pureblood students called him Mudblood when he was younger and had no idea what that word meant; when a Professor said he was quite a talented dueler  _ for a muggle-born _ , genuinely surprised that someone of his birth could excel at something; when people were surprised with his Quidditch skills, because surely only the children that grew up inside the wizarding world would be good at the sport.

When he became Team Captain in his fourth year, even an older student of his own house protested, declaring he wasn’t worthy of it. The only reasoning behind it was the fact that he was muggle-born, and therefore didn’t understand the sport like magical kids did. 

The bloke said it like Jon wasn’t magical himself. 

That hurt him the most, because Jon never thought there were people who believed in that rubbish in Hufflepuff, and he learned the hard way that they existed everywhere.

“I didn’t think I would find you in here, Jon,” a voice interrupted his reading and brooding, and Jon’s head snapped up at the sound.

Bran Stark sat in his wheelchair right in front of the table occupied by Jon.

“How the bloody hell did I not hear you arrive, Bran?” Jon asked, chuckling while putting down his glasses.

“Perhaps you were too focused on your reading,” Bran said, a faint smile on his face. “The Daily Prophet? What are your thoughts on Baratheon’s response to the rise of all this pureblood propaganda?” Bran asked, moving his wheelchair to occupy the place beside him, his eyes studying him with great interest. Jon let out a breath, his expression turning thoughtful.

“Not enough,” he replied sternly, after taking a sip of his tea.

“I think you’re quite right.”

“The government should protect all wizards and witches. That’s why they exist, to preserve the magical law and ensure the safety and interests of all wizardkind. I’m part of this community too, as are all muggle-borns. He should’ve been more firm about the subject but he seemed more concerned about his position at the office,” Jon said, his frustration fully evident in his furrowed brow, slumped shoulders, and in the way he ran a hand through his dark curls.

“I’ve noticed Father was very displeased while reading the Prophet at breakfast. Baratheon is like a brother to him, you know. He left the Estate quite distressed when he finished his meal. I think he wants Baratheon to take a stand on the matter,” Bran said, and Jon was surprised that Robb’s little brother was so perceptive of his surroundings, often picking up on things people normally didn’t pay attention to. 

“Well, let’s hope Mr. Stark can put some sense into him, aye?” Jon added with a grin.

Meaning to collect the newspaper’ pages that lay scattered on top of the ironwood table they shared, Jon accidentally bumped his hand into Bran’s forearm. If this had happened with any other person, he would only mutter an apology, but Bran Stark was not any other person. 

His eyes suddenly turned as white as milk, and he seemed like he was in a trance-like state.

Jon knew Bran Stark was a seer, but he had never experienced a situation where Bran wasn’t anything other than an ordinary boy of fourteen.

He held his breath when Bran grabbed his forearm so tightly, the boy’s knuckles turned almost as white as his eyes. The sudden movement made his cup of tea spill onto the pages of the newspaper, the dark liquid staining the yellow parchment. 

A shiver ran up Jon’s body, making his skin prickle in painful goosebumps.

“Bran?” Jon dared to ask, but it was like Bran was not in the room with him. His lips moved in whispers Jon could barely hear.

“Before winter ends, and the snow melts, and the winter rose fades, you will meet your father, Jon Snow. He will look for you,” Bran finally said, but it was not his voice. 

It was something deeper and farther away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have some things to say! 
> 
> I know the Arya and Sansa scene must have been painful to read. It was hard for me to write them, and I must say it will get worse before it gets better, but I want you to please, trust me on this. I love these characters so freaking much, and one of the main reasons that made me write this story was for me to explore their relationship and how they will slowly build their friendship. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, because I did. I would love to know your opinion about it, so feel free to leave a comment <3  
> Stay safe and healthy! x


	7. A disagreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:** Arya has been acting harsh towards Sansa since the latter's arrival from France. Ned tries and fails to convince Ministry of Magic Robert Baratheon, his close friend, to make a official statement to stand up against the rise of prejudiced speech against muggle-borns in wizarding society. Sansa talks to Bran about her guilt of leaving Wintertown. Jon and Sansa run into each other in the kitchen and talk over a cup of tea. Jon shares a conversation with Bran and the seer gives him a prophecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, there! I hope you're all good and taking care of yourselves.  
> I'm sorry for taking almost two months to update, quarantine has been tough and I had a writer's block.  
> I want to thank all the kind readers who left such lovely comments on the last chapter! Also, my eternal gratitude to [Lydia](https://daughter-of-winterfell.tumblr.com/), my beta reader, who once again helped me with this chapter. You're an angel!
> 
> Enjoy the read! <3

Arya Stark lay in her bed, staring at the wooden ceiling and the unlit candles of the chandelier. The clock on her bedside table said it was fifteen minutes past three, and she should be deeply asleep by now, if she wanted to be well rested for their first day of camping.

She was too focused on the night's symphony: the quiet breathing of her best friend, Meera Reed, who was sleeping right next to her; the sound of the wind blowing outside the house; and the melody of owls and cicadas.

She kept changing positions uncomfortably from time to time, but the problem wasn’t whether her mattress was too soft or stiff, if her pillow was fluffy enough, or if her quilt made her skin feel particularly itchy.

All she wanted was to drift unconscious, but she couldn't get her mind to shut up.

Arya knew, deep down, that she hadn’t done anything wrong. She was sure of it from the moment it all began. That’s what she had been telling herself like a mantra, anyway. Sansa deserved to hear everything she’d said, everything that Arya had kept hidden all these years, even though her words may have sounded a bit harsh. 

They were cruel, but they were necessary. 

She'd meant everything she'd said to Sansa, every single word, but now she felt vulnerable and exposed. All her hurt and resentment lay bare for her sister to see, like an ugly wound she couldn't conceal with bandages.

Everything,  _ everything _ had been said.

So why couldn't she sleep? Why did she feel so awfully guilty?

Knowing it was too late in the night to ask her mother for a sleeping draught, she shifted onto her side and sighed, forcing herself to close her eyes.

❖

_ (Earlier that day) _

"C'mon, Sansa. You’ve been able to charm everyone around you since you could babble your first words. Can't you do this for your dear older brother?" Robb asked, and Sansa arched an eyebrow in response. He was trying his very best to convince her with flattery, she knew. His smirk and pleading blue eyes could fool anyone except her, because she knew him too well to fall for any ofl his secret weapons.

It was early in the morning and they were the only ones having breakfast in the kitchen, for Ned Stark had already left for work at the Ministry, and Catelyn was attending to a sick Rickon. Neither Bran, Arya, nor Robb's friends had gotten down yet.

"Even though I appreciate the compliment Robb, I'm not the one who is famous for making all the girls at Hogwarts swoon. I would say you're charming enough," Sansa declared, half amused and biting her lip in an attempt to contain her laughter, holding her cup of black tea in mid-air. 

Robb sighed, with slumped shoulders and a defeated expression in his face, before saying, "I simply don't know why Mother wants me to take some shortbread to the Cassel’s in the village when she knows perfectly well you're not in France anymore, and have been home for days now..." 

He was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of Theon Greyjoy and an unfamiliar tawny owl. 

The bird flew through the kitchen window and above the long ironwood kitchen table before dropping a letter onto Sansa's plate, which she quickly rescued from the marmalade.

"I say she's been obliviated. She’s completely forgotten you're better at this than me," Robb continued, pointing his fork in her direction before abruptly cutting something on his plate and taking a bite of his fried eggs and sausages.

"Hullo, Theon," he then mumbled with a mouth full of food to his friend, who occupied the seat beside him.

"Or perhaps she just wants you to be closer to the families in the village. You'll be taking over the Winterfell Estate and the Distillery someday, after all. Besides, you know how Father always says the people of Wintertown need to feel that they're looked after. They still rely on our family after all these centuries," Sansa said, inspecting the envelope before looking up to greet Theon with a smile, "Morning, Theon."

"Morning," Theon greeted both Starks with a grin, fetching himself a cup of tea. "Well, let’s hope it will take him a few more years to be in charge of all that. He can’t manage his own classes, let alone the family business,” teased Theon, elbowing his friend, who looked at him with an offended expression.

Robb blinked. “Come again? Do me a favor and remind me what ye got on yer O.W.L.s, will ye? Because I was the one who got six O’s. Not ye, Greyjoy,” he snapped, his accent sounding a lot stronger.

Sansa tried not to laugh at their discussion, and while they were busy teasing one another, she opened the letter and started reading it.

_ Dearest Sansa, _

_ I am ever so sorry for taking so long to answer your last letter. In my defense, however, I was (and I think I still am) on the verge of going completely mental. You're probably wondering if this is another one of those letters where I vent about my absolute git of an older brother, right? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear friend, but the reason for my agony is not Joffrey, but a different Baratheon this time. Two of them, to be more specific. _

_ Mum and Dad have been fighting more than ever lately. Something about him not giving in to some demands of grandpa Tywin's business, I guess. And when Mum and Dad fight, you already know they either try to bribe us to take their sides, or take it out on us. Unfortunately, this time it’s the latter. If only it was the former, at least I could get a new broom. _

_ Joffrey is usually spared as he’s Mum's perfect (I mean spoiled) son, but Tommen and I are having a hard time. Tommen has his cats to keep him company, but I'm actually getting tired of trying to practise Quidditch all by myself. Yes, you've read that sentence correctly, and you know me well enough to deduce that this must mean something serious.  _

_ Having said all that, I wanted you to know how excited I am about coming to Wintertown to spend a few days with you and your family. I should be arriving tomorrow afternoon by floo network (that's today's afternoon for you, since I'm writing this letter late at night, and Margot should deliver it to you early in the morning). Perhaps we could do a little witches' night? I'm bringing with me a few beauty potions I picked up on my last trip to Diagon Alley. _

_ With love, _

_ Myrcella. _

_ P.S.: No need to answer this, by the way, since we'll be seeing one another soon enough. Once again, I'm terribly excited! _

Smiling, Sansa folded up the letter and slipped it into her pocket. She could hardly wait to have all her friends by her side at the end of the day, and she was as excited as Myrcella appeared to be to go camping with her family and friends. 

"So, are you up for it, Sansa?" Theon asked, leaning over the table.

“Up for what?” she asked, quite bewildered, having completely missed their conversation.

“We’re getting sloshed tonight,” Theon explained with a mischievous grin.

“What he means is…we were thinking about going out to the Wolf’s Head tonight. That pub in Wintertown, you know. Only after everyone arrives today, of course,” Robb elaborated.

“Oh, sure,” Sansa agreed with a soft smile, taking a sip of her tea, when a sleepy Arya entered the kitchen.

Everyone who knew her sister, even a little bit, knew for a fact that Arya Stark was not a morning person. The grumpy expression she wore early in the mornings explained it all, and everyone who was close to her knew that it was better to interact with her only after she had taken her dose of strong black tea or coffee.

Sansa was the person who had suffered the most from her sister’s bad mood during mornings, sometimes unfairly, sometimes deservedly. It was just how things were between the two of them, as if their fraught dynamic was a part of nature’s balance. 

However, that was not how Sansa wanted things to be. She was determined to get closer to her sister and to try to heal their relationship, and that’s exactly why she’d asked Lennox, the house-elf, to bake some rowies that morning. The savoury, buttery Scottish bread roll used to be one of Arya’s favourite things in the morning, alongside jam or marmalade.

“Morning, Arya! I’ve saved you some rowies. They’re still warm,” Sansa said, pointing to the tempting plate of delicious buttery treats resting on the table. 

Arya looked surprised by this. She stopped moving and looked at Sansa like she was growing horns out of her head. For a moment, Sansa thought she had finally done something right in her attempt to get past Arya’s walls. Perhaps she had won a battle in the war that had been going on between them for ages. The only exception was that now, she didn’t want to win a discussion or fight, or to prove a point, but get closer to her sister. 

She had no idea that this was actually a lot harder than she’d anticipated.

Sansa had learnt by now that her sister didn’t always act like she expected. Arya Stark was as unpredictable as a winter storm.

“For the love of Godric, could you turn down your  _ Sansaness _ a notch? It’s like you’re always trying to be pleasant and perfect. It’s getting really annoying,” Arya snapped, taking her place at the kitchen table and impatiently grabbing some warm rowies and marmalade, completely ignoring the withering glare Robb gave her.

❖

“I’m bored. Let’s get pissed,” Theon suggested, lying on his back on the bed, his legs crossed at the ankles as he leaned them against the panelled wall which was decorated with Quidditch team posters and banners of yellow and black. He was throwing a quaffle against the bedroom ceiling, and because of a silencing spell that had been cast by Gendry after the noise had started to get on his nerves, the leather-covered ball produced no sound when it hit the ceiling.

A few hours after breakfast, they were lazily spending time in Robb’s bedroom, and Gendry was flipping through a Quidditch magazine, one of Arya’s latest ones. She used to lend them to him during the summer, mailing them via owl post.

“It’s not even noon yet,” Jon chuckled. He was sitting in the only armchair, a comfortable, brown leather one near Robb’s desk, and he was strumming the intro of a Boggart Brothers song on his guitar.

“It’s noon somewhere,” Theon argued.

“I’m starting to think you have a serious drinking problem Theon,” teased Gendry, half laughing and shaking his head. 

He stopped listening to whatever his friends were saying when he spotted an advert for the release of the latest high-end line of racing broomsticks from Baratheon Brooms.

Gendry Waters had fallen in love with Quidditch from the first time he’d heard someone talk about the sport, but nothing fascinated him more than broomsticks. He couldn’t help but sigh, admiring the beautiful lines of the handle, wishing he could examine its aerodynamics and balance. 

Mr. Mott had taught him everything there was to know about designing a broomstick, and learning about this process was something he was really passionate about. He spent a lot of his time learning about how brooms had evolved over the centuries: slowly transforming from a method of transportation developed mainly by single wizards, to the mass production of high performance racing brooms by manufacturing companies, such as the one that belonged to the Baratheon family.

Besides having helped Mr. Mott in his cluttered broom designing studio and his small shop in Aberaeron over the years, Gendry had crafted a few prototypes of his own for the fun of it. It was a way for him to experiment and test his knowledge, and he was actually fairly good at it. 

Good enough to be known at Hogwarts for making improvements on ordinary, low quality brooms for anyone who wished to pay him, which was usually students who couldn’t afford a racing broom. Even Robb’s younger brother, Bran Stark, sought him out to work on a project of their own: a broom completely adapted to Bran’s needs so he could fly again.

“Do you lads think the Blackthunder V will be released before September?” he asked, still admiring the moving photograph of the broomstick, “I would like to take a look at one when we go to Diagon Alley.”

“I was actually thinking of asking Myrcella about that as soon as she arrives,” Robb said, sitting at his favourite spot on the window sill. “I bet she will get one from her father, but that means Joffrey Baratheon will probably get one too, and he is already insufferable as it is,” he rolled his eyes at the mention of the Slytherin.

Theon chuckled. “It’s not you who will have to deal with him bragging about it all the time, so be grateful about it,” he said, violently throwing the quaffle at his friend, who caught it without much effort.

“I’ve read that Loras Tyrell will fly a prototype at his next Kenmare Kestrels match to promote the launching,” Jon said, while still playing his guitar.

“We could watch the match after we return from the camping trip,” Robb suggested with a shrug, throwing the quaffle back to Theon, who didn’t see it coming and cursed his friend when the leather ball hit him.

Gendry tried not to get too excited about the idea of watching a Kestrels match when the four of them had already gone to a Quidditch game that summer. He had his books and school supplies to worry about, and even though he bought them secondhand and had some savings due to his work improving brooms, he still worried about money every single day of his life.

Out of all of his friends, Jon was the only one who actually understood what that felt like. Being muggle-borns, the two of them had very similar upbringings. Although he knew that Robb and Theon didn’t mean any harm with their suggestions of watching Quidditch matches and going to rock concerts, only Jon understood what it was like to always have to make up excuses when they couldn’t embark with their friends on adventures simply because they couldn’t afford it.

“We could, but right now, we should be packing for tomorrow, lads,” Jon reminded them.

Gendry replied bluntly, “Already done that.”

“Your trunk has been untouched near your bed since the day you arrived here, Gendry,” Theon pointed out, getting off the bed with the quaffle under his arm and starting to casually search for something in the drawers of Robb’s desk. 

Gendry thought he was probably looking for a cigarette, and he silently watched Theon opening and slamming drawers instead of answering. 

“So you’re bringing an enormous trunk with you, instead of a backpack? And your uniform, books and school supplies too?” Robb asked wryly, and then he added, half laughing, “You’re not doing your summer assignments while we’re camping, Gendry. I won’t allow it. Our camping trip won’t be tainted by responsibilities, we’ll have plenty of that in our final year at Hogwarts.”

Gendry sighed. He opened his mouth and closed it twice, not really certain about what to say. 

He closed the Quidditch magazine he’d been looking at and set it aside, sitting up straight on his spot by the old ironwood chest at the foot of the bed. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and nervously ran a hand through his thick, jet black hair.

“I sort of... packed everything I owned when I left Aberaeron. For good,” he muttered, and the room grew very quiet. It was Jon who caught on first, and the realization made him put his guitar down at once.

“Shit, Gendry.”

He looked up and saw three sets of eyes staring at him, and for a brief moment, he regretted saying anything about it. He wished he could take it back, but after Mr. Mott’s death, those three people, alongside Arya, were the most important ones in his life. 

He never knew the name of his father, and his mother died when he was still a child, so young he couldn’t even remember her face. The only memory he had of her was the golden shade of her hair, and nothing more.

They used to sleep on a thin mattress inside the cellar of the pub his mother worked at as a waitress, and when she died of a burning fever, the owner threw him out because he didn’t want any problems with the authorities. 

For months, until Tobho Mott took him in, he lived on the streets with other children, surviving on stolen food and stolen wallets. That was when odd things started to happen wherever he went, things he couldn’t understand but helped him survive either way.

It began with little tricks, such as managing to make a few loaves of bread float in his direction with a blink of an eye when the baker was distracted, or being able to do the same with wallets without their owners realizing. 

One day, he tried to rob the only person who was able to notice what he was actually doing.

Instead of delivering him to the authorities, however, the old man gave him food, a home and a purpose. He had magic in his blood, as Mr. Mott tried to explain it to him, but Gendry was just happy he had somewhere to sleep.

“Wait… what do you mean, mate?” Theon’s voice brought him out of his own thoughts.

“What Gendry means is Mr. Mott’s son probably did what we feared and threw him out,” Robb sighed. As he spoke, he made a dismissive gesture of his hand and used the deep, low and serious voice he often used when he was talking about something that concerned him; the one that made him resemble his father and look older than he actually was. 

“He didn’t throw me out, as a matter of fact,” Gendry clarified, staring at his joined hands and not being able to help the nervous tap of his foot against the ironwood floor.

“You left?” Jon prompted after a few seconds, and his dark eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.

Gendry sighed without knowing it, dropping his forehead to his hand and rubbing it with the tips of his fingers. “Of course I did, right before the funeral. I just saved the man the trouble of having to actually do it. Throw me out, I mean,” he said, already knowing this would be an issue. 

He trailed off at the sight of Jon shaking his head. After a pause, he started again, almost talking to himself: “There is nothing left for me in Aberaeron.”

“But Mr. Mott left you part of his studio and his shop,” Theon remarked, putting the quaffle aside, “We were there with you when that Ministry employee sought you out to talk about his will.”

“Do you really think,” Gendry began, a little annoyed at having to explain this in the first place, “a greedy son who almost bankrupted his father before vanishing for years and years, returning only for his father’s funeral, will easily accept having to share his inheritance?” he glanced up at the three of them, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“He doesn’t need to accept it, it’s his father’s will,” Robb insisted sternly, looking at him from his spot on the windowsill with furrowed eyebrows.

“Not if I refuse it. I don’t want any trouble with him,” he said flatly, avoiding eye contact.

Jon frowned. “Am I the only one who paid attention to the part where Gendry said he left right before the funeral?” he asked, his eyes drifting from Gendry to Theon, and finally to Robb, “A funeral that happened almost two months ago?”

“Yes, where did you stay all this time?” Theon demanded to know.

He sighed, contemplating the fact that this conversation turned out to be far different from what he’d expected it to be.

Gendry hesitated. “I… managed it,” he admitted.

At this, Robb’s face turned into a frown, and he opened his mouth and closed it, before pushing himself to his feet. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you owled me? You could’ve stayed here,” he gestured round broadly. His face was contorted into an odd mixture of confusion and concern.

“And overstay my welcome?” Gendry asked. “We’re already camping with your family, Robb,” he continued warily, watching him pace from one end of the room to the other, something Robb usually did when he desperately needed to think.

“You could’ve stayed with me and my Mum,” Jon pointed out, giving him a serious look.

“He’s right, mate,” Then agreed. “I would’ve offered for you to stay at my house too, although I don’t think it would’ve been a good idea. For obvious reasons,” he said, laughing bitterly, before adding: “Even so, you could've said something. We could’ve helped you.”

This annoyed him. 

Even though Theon didn’t intend to, his words still judged him. It made him feel like he wasn’t a good friend because he didn’t turn to them when he needed to, like he didn’t trust them, and Gendry didn’t feel like he’d done anything to deserve it. He trusted them like he trusted no one else in the world.

“Mrs. Snow doesn’t even know me,” Gendry observed, trying to change the focus of the conversation.

“That’s not the fucking point, Gendry,” Jon snapped, meeting his eyes with frustration.

“Have you already refused your share in Mr Mott’s will?” Robb questioned, abruptly stopping in the middle of the room and gazing at him with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, “You know, officially?”

“Yes,” he replied, looking down at his own feet.

“Why?” Robb wanted to know. “I thought you enjoyed designing brooms. You know how talented you are, I thought it was something you wanted to do…” he said, looking at him with a confusion written all over his face. It wasn’t like Robb was condemning him for his decision, he just simply couldn’t understand his reasoning behind it.

A very small, very bitter little voice inside his mind whispered to him that Robb would never understand it.

“As a hobby, yes. But not for a living,” he tried to explain calmly, gesturing with his hands, but it only came out sounding impatient, “I need something stable, Robb. Working for the Ministry is my best shot.” 

Robb nodded, even though Gendry knew he didn’t agree with him, and they remained silent for several moments. 

“Look-” Gendry trailed off, trying to find the appropriate words. He stood up, because he couldn’t sit still any longer.

“I just needed to deal with this by myself. The man was the closest thing I had to a father. You all have your families to return to at the end of every school term. I don’t,” he gave a tired sigh, because it was harsh but it was, in fact, the truth. “And yes, Theon, even though yours is a shitty one, you still have a family,” he made sure to add before Theon could say anything about it, and for a moment, they all chuckled.

“I only had him. It’s not that I didn’t want your help or anything, I just needed to figure things out. I’m still trying to,” he finished with a shrug, running a hand through his hair.

There was a long silence before Robb firmly grabbed one of his shoulders.

“If you need us, we’ll be here. We’ll always be here,” he said, staring at him with intense honesty.

Gendry nodded slowly, and said, his raspy voice sounding almost like a whisper, “Aye, I know.”

❖

Arya Stark was known for being a spirited, vivacious young witch. Rumor of her quick temper and daring spirit preceded her, and her sharp tongue had a life of its own. The fifteen year old girl had no trouble standing up for herself and for others in need, and there was a reason the Sorting Hat had sorted her into Gryffindor after barely touching her dark brown hair.

She was tough and strong, and she was proud of it.

However, over the course of the last few days, Arya was afraid she was getting a little... soft.

That afternoon, right before luncheon, she ran up the stairs two steps at a time, all excited and energized. She rushed along the corridor of the castle’s family wing, meaning to get to her bedroom so she could wash herself and change her clothes, because Meera Reed and the others would be arriving soon, and she’d spent most of the morning practising her reflexes while flying with a broom. 

When she passed in front of the open door to Sansa’s bedroom, however, she stopped abruptly.

Arya had no idea why she did that, or why she curiously peeked inside. She found Sansa looking for something inside her drawers, and her older sister seemed so distracted in her search that she barely noticed her at the entrance of the room. Arya decided to announce her presence by clearing her throat.

“Arya! I didn’t see you there,” Sansa said, looking at her with surprised blue eyes and a cheerful smile. She then added: “Come on in! I’m just looking for something then I’ll be right down for luncheon. Has someone arrived yet?”

“No, they haven’t. Not yet, at least,” Arya answered with a nod, quietly entering her sister’s room. Looking around, she noticed that Sansa’s bedroom hadn’t changed while she was away. The house elves had cleaned it regularly, but other than that, everything remained the same as when she left Wintertown two years ago. Except for, of course, its owner, who had changed quite a bit.

Looking at her sister with grass and dirt stains on her jeans and sweater was the weirdest thing Arya had seen in a while. Sansa, who used to be so prim and proper, was now acting most unlike herself, and no one seemed to be as shaken by that as Arya was. And somehow, their mother didn’t complain about this, not one single time.

Sansa was simply getting away with something Arya used to get scolded for her whole life, and that wasn’t fair. It was Arya who used to walk around the Winterfell Estate with dirty clothes after long hours playing outside, making her mother cross. Not Sansa, no. Sansa used to read, and knit, and sew. She used to be the perfect little lady. Mummy’s little girl. The perfect daughter who made Ned and Cat so proud. The perfect sister all her siblings looked up to. The perfect student with high marks and friends who adored her. Always so  _ fucking _ perfect, it made Arya furious.

If Sansa soon discovered other things she had in common with her, Arya thought she would go mental, because being  _ nothing _ like Sansa had shaped and defined her for a long time while growing up.

“You know...” Arya began, crossing her arms in an intimidating way while she walked around the room, before leaning casually against the edge of Sansa’s desk.

This was ‘no bullshit Arya’, the personality she assumed when she needed to put bullies in their places; stand up to the boys in her own house, who didn’t think she deserved the post of Quidditch Team Captain; or right before she needed to resolve a disagreement with fists or hexes.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I’m quite curious about it... why did you come back?” she asked bluntly, looking at Sansa straight in the eyes.

“W-what?” her sister managed to say.

“We all thought you were going to finish your magical education at Beauxbatons, like you wanted so much. That was specifically why you left Wintertown, because France was so much better than here. So why did you come back?” Arya pressed, unable to hide her contempt. It had made her so angry at the time, Sansa thinking that Hogwarts and Wintertown were not good enough for her.

Arya’s words had apparently frozen her sister on the spot, because Sansa stood silent and still, with a haunted look on her face.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. Those were your precise words!” Arya said, coldly and defiantly, because she couldn’t stand Sansa looking at her like she’d said something absurd, when those were, in fact,  _ her words _ .

“I… I guess Beauxbatons wasn’t for me,” Sansa replied with an expression on her face that Arya didn’t like it. It was too emotional, like Arya was being too harsh.

“So you think you can simply come back home, shed a few tears and think everything will go back to how it used to be?” Arya snapped, her temper rising. She uncrossed her arms and took a few steps towards her sister. Sansa blinked several times, trying to pull herself together, when Arya was the exact opposite of that.

“I missed all of you every day, Arya. I missed Wintertown and Hogwarts every single day I was there.”

“Oh, did you? Really? It doesn’t seem like it. You didn’t even visit us in the two busy and exciting years you spent there!” she said, voice low and furious, and Sansa stared at her like she’d been slapped on the face. “This is the moment you start crying, right? Because that’s such an important part of your little act, all that crying,” Arya scoffed, not helping herself.

“Arya, if you’re here to argue with me, I’m not going to have it, so please...” Sansa countered, sounding firm and strong for the first time since she came back.

“You left us, Sansa!” Arya interrupted her. She was shouting now, her voice loud and angry. “You left when Bran needed us. You left! You have no right to come back and expect it all be the same while you slip a few tears and give a few hugs! You can’t expect to give me a few compliments, save me a plate of warm rowies, for Godric’s sake, and act like we are good friends!” she snapped, feeling her body shake with anger.

For a moment, the two sisters stood quiet. Arya allowed her words to sink in, and Sansa opened and closed her mouth a few times, struggling for something to say.

Arya was angry. At Sansa. At herself.

She was terrified of the idea of becoming soft, so she’d decided to harden herself up instead.

Because there were moments, brief ones, when she found herself putting aside all the anger and resentment she felt for her sister, and it was like she was betraying her younger self every time she did it. It was almost like her memory betrayed her sometimes, making her forget all the reasons they hadn't got along while growing up; all the reasons why she disliked Sansa so very much. It was like she was letting her guard down everytime she was in Sansa’s presence, and Arya hated herself for it. 

“Arya...” Sansa started, her voice sounding very emotional. She tried again: “Arya, we  _ can _ be friends. We can try, at least. I would like that very much. I know we’ve had our differences in the past...”

Arya grew very cold.

“ _ Our differences? _ ” her grey eyes narrowed, her voice quiet but with a clear intimidating edge to it. She could feel her anger burning inside her veins, a volcano ready to erupt.

Arya shook her head. “Those weren’t simply differences. You let Jeyne Poole call me Horseface Arya my whole first year at Hogwarts!” she snapped, feeling her eyes getting warm with tears of fury. She hated it, because moments ago she had been mocking Sansa and her crying, and there she was now, on the verge of tears.

“Arya...” Sansa looked at her with shiny blue eyes, like she was barely holding back tears herself.

“You let her mock me and you didn’t stand up for me like a sister should,” Arya shouted angrily, finally saying out loud something she hadn’t shared with anyone during all those years.

“Arya... I was a stupid, silly little girl. I’m sorry, I...” Sansa broke off, full fledged tears now running down her cheeks.

“Don’t you dare say that, Sansa Stark. Don’t you dare cry and say you’re sorry, thinking that it’s enough. I don’t believe any of that rubbish,” Arya growled. She could barely recognize her low and threatening voice. It was like someone else was saying those words.

“And I can’t stand you running around acting all martyred, saying we can try to be friends, when it was  _ you _ who ruined this. You hear me? You did this to us. Don’t you dare make me feel guilty for fighting back, because I won’t. We are not friends and we will never be, so you can just drop your little act,” Arya told her venomously, the angry, hot tears starting to fall. 

She didn’t wait for a response. The Gryffindor rushed out of the room as fast as she could, violently closing the door behind her.

She wouldn’t let Sansa see her cry.

❖

"Merlin's beard, I can't believe I am finally here," Myrcella said, dropping onto the carefully made bed with a sigh, making the few decorative pillows on Sansa's bed jump in the air.

"I would be thanking Merlin too, if I had to put up with that brother of yours for a whole summer," Jeyne chuckled, letting go of her backpack beside the velvet mustard armchair. The late afternoon sun peeked through the window, casting the whole room in a golden light.

"I only hope he won't get the Head Boy position. His ego won't fit into the Great Hall if that happens," Margaery noted, elegantly running a hand through her curly brown hair while looking for something in one of the pockets of her backpack.

"Sansa?" It was Jeyne who noticed her absent mind first, and Sansa almost cursed herself for it.

"Oh, yes, Joffrey Baratheon as Head Boy? We'd be living under a reign of terror, certainly," Sansa agreed, trying to insert herself on their conversation.

"What's going on?" Jeyne insisted, looking at her with concerned brown eyes.

Her friends had just arrived. The day she'd been anxiously waiting for this whole week was finally here, and she simply couldn't enjoy it as she’d liked to, because she let herself be so easily affected by her sister.

Arya's words felt like a punch to her stomach. It was like her worst fears had finally come true, and all the accusations she feared the most had come out of her sister's mouth like sharp knives.

Whatever comfort Bran's words had brought, it had all disappeared when Arya stated everything Sansa had been thinking this whole time. 

How could she say she missed her family and friends, when she hadn’t even made the effort to visit them? She'd been terribly ashamed at the time, so much so that she couldn't even think of facing them, and for so many things: for leaving the safety of her home to pursue her exchange program at Beauxbatons; for blindly believing for so long in the illusion she’d built for herself that this would be the best experience of her life; for letting herself be stepped on so easily; for trusting the wrong people; for allowing Petyr Baelish get closer and closer to her, until she couldn't get rid of his presence; for drowning herself in guilt and shame and not being strong enough like her mother, father and siblings. 

How could she desire to be closer to Arya when she completely failed her as a sister? When she'd been silent and conniving, not standing up for Arya like a sister is meant to?

She’d hoped it would be easier to mend their relationship, but she'd been wrong. God, she'd been so terribly wrong, and now she wondered if there was any relationship to mend, and that scared her to death.

"Sansa, darling," Margaery's voice brought her back from her own thoughts, "Are you alright?"

"I am!" she answered at once, a rehearsed smile promptly taking over her features. "I was just distracted thinking about all the seeds and materials I have to buy next time I go to Wintertown, that's all," she said with a shrug and a dismissive gesture, walking towards the bed where Myrcella was sitting, observing them.

"So, where are those beauty potions you mentioned, Ella? I think we have a few hours before meeting the others for the pub," she went on, easily putting her thoughts to the back of her mind and acting like nothing disturbed her. She’d done that so often, bottling up everything she felt and keeping it secret, it was almost like turning a key inside her head.

The question was: how long could she do it before drowning herself?

❖

“He said what?” echoed Margaery in disbelief, looking at Myrcella with a shocked expression on her face. 

It was early evening, and the four witches were all spending time in Sansa’s bedroom. They had beauty potions on their faces and on their hair, some of them provided by Myrcella and others owned by Sansa herself, and they all shared the spacious bed with all sorts of snacks scattered between them. Butterbeers had promptly been provided by Jeyne, who reasoned that they might as well start drinking now if they were going to the pub later.

Sansa couldn't agree more. Not just because she was always happy to drink butterbeer, but rather due to the fact that having all her friends gathered around, sharing drinks, snacks and random conversations was something she missed deeply.

“He said I’m not going to make it very far as a professional Quidditch player,” Myrcella answered bitterly.

“Is he mental?” Sansa asked, stretching to get a bag of jelly slugs. “Ella, before I went to Beauxbatons, you were the best player Gryffindor’s quidditch team had. Along with Arya, of course. I knew that for a fact, and I didn’t even like Quidditch. If I had to bet on it, I’d say you still are.”

“He’s probably jealous because  _ he _ wouldn’t go very far as a professional Quidditch player, you know.  _ Unlike you! _ ” Jeyne noted, lying on the mattress and putting her feet up on the headboard.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my friends,” accused Myrcella, chuckling, “and I wouldn’t be friends with you lot if I knew you weren’t going to say just that.”

“No, we’re saying that because it’s the bloody truth!” snapped Margaery, taking a few sips of her butterbeer, “Besides, your brother is a twat, Ella. Ignore him.”

“Do you want to become a professional Quidditch player?” Sansa asked, gazing at her friend who looked puzzled by the question. 

“I’ve wanted to become lots of things,” she mused after a few seconds of thoughtful silence. “I used to think about becoming an Auror, just like Uncle Jaime. Then there was the Healer phase, and the Curse Breaker one, of course,” Myrcella elaborated in an undertone.

“Oh, I remember that,” Margaery said, laughing under her breath and helping herself to some toffee, “You got all excited after we discovered that secret passage and made us explore the whole castle for weeks to find new ones.”

“It’s alright if you’re not sure about which career to choose yet, Ella,” remarked Sansa in an attempt to soothe her friend.

“Well, I know I want to write for the Daily Prophet someday,” announced Jeyne, swinging her legs from one side to the other, “Which reminds me of something! Sansa!”

“What?” inquired the redhead, startled by Jeyne’s sudden change of subject. The brunette pulled herself up, sitting cross-legged just a few inches away from Sansa, and her smile was full of excitement.

“I’m thinking about starting a wireless program. It’s sort of a news broadcast to Hogwarts students, and I have yet to figure everything out, but I wondered if you’d like to join me on this,” Jeyne said beaming, and Sansa tried very hard to catch up with her, as she was talking really fast.

“God, I should’ve thought more about what to say when I had the chance to invite you, or at least I shouldn’t have done it over a butterbeer,” she continued, tossing her long, chestnut hair out of her face. “Anyway, it’s a project I’ve been wanting to get off the drawing board for ages, and you were the first person that came to mind when I thought about inviting someone to join me,” she finished, looking at Sansa with a hopeful gleam in her brown eyes, as though she was waiting for her to say something.

The truth was, Sansa had been taken completely by surprise. 

The idea of a wireless program had never crossed her mind, even though she’d invested in keeping herself as informed as possible about the social and political events of her country while she was away in France. She knew her father was part of the current political scene in the Wizarding World as an important figure in the Wizengamot, and she had always been curious about his duties in the high Wizard Court of Law, but it was never more than exactly that - curiosity.

“Jeyne, I’m flattered, I really am…” she paused, trying to think of what to say. 

“You don’t have to give me an answer right now. We can talk about this another day, when I’ll hopefully be sober enough to explain it to you without babbling,” Jeyne chuckled, quickly adding: “It’s just something I’m really excited about, and I thought you’d enjoy being a part of it. Not only because you’re my friend, but also due to your skills.”

At that, Sansa smiled, reaching out her hand to gently squeeze Jeyne’s as in a silent way of thanking her.

“Look at my girls, starting projects together and being their awesome selves,” Margaery’s voice was proud and affectionate, and they all laughed together while taking a few more sips of their butterbeers.

Sansa felt a warmth that had nothing to do with her drink, and her laugh was a big, carefree one she hadn't had in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I hope you're not too angry at me for that Arya and Sansa fight. It was painful for me to write that, but I promise I have a purpose here, so I ask you to trust me :)
> 
> I really enjoy writing different povs to tell this story, it feels great as a writer to experiment with other characters, and I'll try to write Robb & Margaery and Gendry & Arya too, but this story will still be mainly focused on Jonsa, my ultimate otp.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was a difficult one to write, but here it is. I'm almost finished with the next one, and there will be a Jonsa scene, I guarantee that! Please keep in mind that this will be a slow burn/mutual pining story, and I'll be establishing a friendship between these two before anything happens, so be patient with me.
> 
> Anyway, I would love to read your feedback. They keep me motivated, but I'm also curious about your opinion, so feel free to leave a comment if you'd like! <3  
> Best wishes x


	8. The Wolf’s Head Pub & Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:** Arya fights majorly with Sansa and Robb tries very hard not to intervene. Margaery, Myrcella, Jeyne, Meera and Jojen arrive at Wintertown for a camping trip with the Stark family, and the whole group decides to go to a local pub in the village to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! This chapter was a little difficult to finish but really fun to write. Since english is not my first language it takes me a bit more time to be able to write something that I'm proud of, so I'm sorry for not updating sooner. [Lydia](https://daughter-of-winterfell.tumblr.com/), my awesome beta reader, helped me a lot in this chapter with her editing and insigts, and I just wanted to say how grateful I am <3
> 
> Thanks for everyone who took the time to read this story, leave a kudo or a comment. Stay safe and healthy! This chapter has plenty of Jonsa and also a bit of Robbaery. I hope you'll enjoy the read :)

The room was filled with laughter, loud voices and music, and the usual crowd was gathered at the Wolf’s Head Pub & Inn.

A wizard with dark, shoulder length hair maneuvered through the maze of tables and chairs whilst carrying a tray with food and drinks, making the orders levitate towards the customers with a flick of his wand. Behind the ironwood bar, the innkeeper was serving a glass of firewhiskey to an old man smoking a pipe, and the vast array of bottles behind him glittered while being polished by an enchanted piece of cloth. 

In the corner of the room, a jolly group of witches and wizards shared a booth, sipping at their drinks and telling stories to one another, their voices rising above the rest of the small crowd. 

Not that far away from them, a young man at the bar watched them closely while peacefully drinking his firewhiskey.

_That sound_ , he thought, that careless sound of laughter and excitement, when someone felt safe enough to let their guard down and have some fun with the ones they trusted and cared about; that was a sound he wanted to hear coming from them until he was an old man, too old to hear anything. 

However, Robb Stark knew that was not possible. At least not for every single moment of their lives, because even though he was still quite young, he knew it was absolutely unreasonable to expect to be happy all the time. 

Their laughter and joyful conversations wouldn’t erase the fact that his sister didn’t seem quite like herself since she came back from France; or that one of his best mates didn’t have a place to live anymore; or even that his two sisters hadn’t looked at each other since they arrived at the pub.

He had fought _so hard_ the urge to intervene, instead letting Sansa and Arya work on their problems on their own, but he knew from the start that something was up. This was nothing like their constant bickering and how they always drove everyone around them crazy with their quarrels. No, this was far more serious and he had absolutely no idea what to do about it. And he _needed_ to do something about it, because he _had_ to take care of them, even if they didn’t want him to.

“Weren’t you going to get us more firewhiskey?” a female voice asked, and he looked up.

“Pretty sure the almighty Miss Tyrell can get her own drink,” he teased with a grin.

“I can, I grant you that. But should I have to?” 

He snorted and watched her take two strides in his direction to lean against the bar, resting both her elbows on top of the wooden surface. 

“Something is up with Sansa,” she said bluntly, gazing at the table where their friends were gathered. 

Robb looked over his shoulder in the same direction, quickly recognizing the copper hair of his sister chatting with Bran and Theon.

“I know,” he answered with a sigh, looking away and rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers.

“And she is keeping it to herself,” Margaery went on, her eyes not leaving their friends.

“I know.”

“Whenever we ask what’s going on with her, she always changes the subject. She won’t talk about it.” 

“Did you come here to tell me things I already know?” he asked, knowing his annoyance was written all over his face when his narrowed eyes darted to her. Margaery didn’t answer him right away.

“Look, I’m just worried about her, that’s all,” she said after a moment, and Robb could see that she was being honest. 

Although they were in the same year at Hogwarts and had shared a couple of classes since they were eleven, he didn’t know Margaery Tyrell that well. One thing he knew for certain, however, and that was that she had always been a good friend to his sister. To Robb, this said more about her character than anything else someone could ever say about the Slytherin girl.

“We’re all worried about her,” he answered, and he sighed without knowing it, gazing at his sister once more out of the corner of his eye.

Sansa used to be one of his closest friends. 

What they had was not just a simple familiarity between brother and sister - they had _truly_ been friends for most of their lives. 

Maybe this happened because they were the eldest, and the responsibility of often having to take care of their younger siblings had brought them closer. Robb had felt the need to protect every single one of his brothers and sisters since the day they’d drawn their first breaths, of course, but it was always Sansa he went to when he needed comfort or advice. 

It was Sansa he went to when he needed to vent about their parents and siblings; when he needed help with a Herbology essay - something she was very good at; when he thought he wasn’t good enough to fulfil everything that was expected of him as the heir to the Stark name.

Robb was sure he’d been a source of strength and support for her too, although he’d been doubting that lately.

He always used to comfort her whenever she had a nightmare when they were children and she didn’t want to disturb their mother. He had written to her twice a week when he left Wintertown to attend Hogwarts, so she wouldn’t feel lonely at home, and he’d made sure to tell her everything there was to know about the magical school and how excited he was to show her all the wonders he’d discovered when she started her magical education the following year. 

Robb had been there for her the same way she’d been there for him. That’s how they were: always supportive, always taking care of one another.

Until they didn’t anymore.

Her letters from France had become increasingly scarce during the two years she’d been abroad, and one time he’d gone almost two months without hearing any news from her, something Robb never thought would happen when she left. He’d been surprised when he heard news from Sansa _through_ Margaery once, and he had tried his best not to feel so betrayed by it at the time. 

Robb wanted to be a supportive figure in his sister's life, like he’d always been. Back then, he knew perfectly well that _demanding_ something from her was not the answer.

It still wasn’t.

This didn’t change the fact that it pained him though.

Acting as if nothing had changed between them and not mentioning the way she’d distanced herself during her time away had been the best way he’d found to deal with the situation, but he still felt like he couldn’t really reach her. 

He wanted to fix this, he wanted to _fix her_ , but he had no idea how to do it. 

She felt foreign to him and, with Arya being overly abrasive, _not interfering_ had been one of the hardest things he’d done in a while.

“At least she seems to be having fun tonight.”

Distracted, he glanced up. “What?” 

He turned his eyes from Margaery to their friend’s table. “Yeah, she does…”

They remained silent for a while, and Robb finished the last drop of his firewhiskey, knocking the empty glass on top of the ironwood bar.

“Do you want some?” he asked, raising the empty glass.

“Sure,” she replied, turning around and mirroring his position in front of the bar, their elbows brushing against one another while he craned his neck to look for the innkeeper.

❖

The butterbeer washed away the bitter taste she felt in her mouth whenever she glanced over at Arya, and Sansa was grateful for it.

She felt lighter, happier and more at ease than she’d felt in a long time, and even though she knew perfectly well that this was due to the butterbeer slowly numbing all her worries and concerns, she thought there was no harm in enjoying a night of careless fun in the company of her siblings and friends.

_I won’t fret over Arya, not tonight_ , Sansa thought to herself, deciding to push this matter to the back of her mind, just like she’d done with so many other things that brought her discomfort and pain. It was easier that way.

“So you’re saying you all learnt this card game from a drunk Argentinian during a trip?” Bran asked with an incredulous laugh, and Sansa’s eyes darted from her younger brother to Theon Greyjoy, who was sitting right across from them in the booth they all shared in the corner of the pub.

“Not everything, though,” Theon replied, idly shuffling the cards, “We made up a few rules by ourselves. You know, to make it more interesting,” he said with a crooked grin.

“Well, at least now I know why it doesn’t make any sense,” Bran scoffed, and Sansa found herself unable to stop her laughter, needing to press her fingers to her lips so she wouldn’t spill the butterbeer she’d just drunk.

“It surely must make a _little_ bit of sense, or you lot wouldn’t have had your own tournament the other day,” she said, having another sip of her butterbeer and noticing, out of the corner of her eye, that Bran wasn’t paying attention to their conversation any more, gazing at where Arya and Meera stood chatting instead. 

“A sober one, by all means!” she added cheerfully, looking back at Theon.

“I can teach it to you, if you want,” Theon offered with an encouraging smile.

Sansa shrugged. “Why not?” Then, placing a hand on her brother’s arm, she added, “Would you like to join us, Bran?”

“Oh no, suit yourselves,” he answered with a dismissive gesture of his hand. “I’m going to… I’ll be right back, alright?” he finished, and she noticed he glanced up nervously at Arya and Meera once again before pushing back his wheelchair.

Sansa watched him leave for a second or two, and when her eyes darted back to Theon, she realised he was shaking his head and laughing to himself.

“What?” she wanted to know, leaning back in the booth.

“He’s trying to make up his mind whether he’ll talk to Meera or not,” he snorted, looking over his shoulder to where the two girls stood near the wall with mugs of butterbeer in their hands. “He thinks we don’t know about it.” 

“Leave him be, Greyjoy,” she scolded him, but she found herself smiling too.

She remembered what it felt like, to have a crush on someone, and the nervous feeling one could get whenever said person was near. 

Sansa also remembered, quite bitterly and feeling a weight in the pit of her stomach, how she often ended up having feelings for the wrong person. How love always seemed to go hand in hand with pain, rejection and heartbreak for her, and there was no way around it.

First, there was Waymar Royce, so handsome with his grey eyes. He’d been the first boy she’d ever had a crush on and, at ten, Sansa thought herself madly in love. They met during one of those important dinners held by the most prominent pureblood houses of the British wizarding world, and he’d been so kind to her in the few words they’d exchanged. She followed him around like a shadow during that dinner party, trying to overhear his conversations and learn everything there was to know about him. Waymar had an entitled air around him, Sansa had noticed, but he’d also shown tenderness while telling others about his older brothers and how he wished to attend Hogwarts instead of Beauxbatons, where his father held a position as a professor at that time.

The problem was that Sansa was almost invisible to Waymar. This never changed, even when she met him again a couple of years later when she started attending Hogwarts. No matter how many times she tried to discreetly be around him and his Gryffindor friends when walking from one class to another, or how she always picked the closest table to him in the library, even when there were plenty of vacant spots to choose from, he never noticed her, and she was too shy and afraid of rejection to try to talk to him. She preferred to watch him from afar with a heart full of longing instead.

When she met Headmaster Yohn Royce years later during her stay at Beauxbatons and their fondness of Robin Arryn brought them closer, she secretly wondered if he would ever accept her as a daughter-in-law if she married Waymar someday. 

_A silly dream of a foolish fourteen year old girl_ , she thought, feeling ashamed and embarrassed of herself now.

There had been Joffrey Baratheon too, tall and golden and insolently handsome, and apparently everyone _but her_ had known how much of an arsehole he was. 

The Baratheons were old friends of the Starks, and it was common for the two families to meet every now and then, especially after Sansa and Myrcella had become friends. Robert Baratheon was Robb’s godfather after all, and the man used to boast about how glad he was that Sansa and Ella were thick as thieves, just like him and Ned used to be when they were younger. He’d even joked about joining House Baratheon and House Stark together with a betrothal once, and although arranged marriages were still a very common practice between most wizarding families, it was normally agreed to when young wizards and witches reached seventeen - the age of majority. 

This had never stopped Mr. Baratheon from encouraging Joffrey and Sansa to spend some time together though, in the embarrassing and not very subtle way only Robert Baratheon knew how to. It was all rather mortifying, of course, but she couldn’t deny that there was a part of her that didn’t feel completely opposed to the idea. She’d spent almost all of her first year at Hogwarts stealing glances at Joffrey, completely blind at first to the fact that, in the few times the Slytherin boy had actually noticed her, it was only to act mean and arrogant, or to make fun of how disoriented she acted when he was around. He’d even called her flat-chested in front of everyone once, and threatened to hex her when she accidentally caught him antagonizing a couple of muggle-born first years. She’d been so terrified when he’d jabbed his wand against her throat that she froze on the spot.

Then, Aegon Targaryen came into her life, and Sansa felt attracted to him because he was the complete opposite of Joffrey. She enjoyed how he always called her pretty, and how the Slytherin boy tried to ask her out for weeks even though she’d said no at first. They went on a few dates to Hogsmeade during her third year, and he’d been the first boy she’d kissed. Sansa used to dissect every conversation they had with her closest friends, wondering if he loved her, if they were going to be together forever and what she would name their children. Everything had been great until she found out he’d been snogging some other girl behind her back for the whole time they had been going out, and then they were done. 

Harry Hardyng had been the worst, she thought to herself, and just the memory of everything that had happened made her feel sick and embarrassed.

She’d been so lonely and isolated at Beauxbatons that she almost couldn’t believe it when he’d approached her once after her Charms class, looking dreamy with his sandy hair and deep blue eyes matching the colour of his uniform. She had seen him as a friend, the only person who had been kind to her, and it had been so easy to fall for him, so _indisputably easy_ it had been almost like falling asleep after a tiresome day.

Sansa had been so in love she’d turned a blind eye to how he subtly turned sex into something she owed him, and that sometimes when they slept together, she had found it stressful, largely unpleasant and almost disappointing. There were moments when she felt pleasure in it, of course, because he knew exactly where to kiss her and where to touch her, but there were others where everything felt rushed and impersonal. It often made her wonder if love was supposed to be like that.

Only after hearing him brag to his friends about shagging her in abandoned classrooms and broom closets did it become evident to her that she’d been nothing more than a trophy to him - another conquest on his record.

The worst part, though, was that she’d actually _trusted_ him. Her poor judgement; her inability to see things for what they truly were; her eagerness to confide in him and give away parts of herself, expecting people to keep them safe and perhaps like her back, giving them everything they wanted just to keep them close, only for them to take, and take, and take and not give her anything back; that was what pained her the most. It was a mistake she never wanted to make again.

Having to endure several weeks of aggressive harassment from other blokes who’d heard about her from Harry and wanted to ask her out had been an actual nightmare, one that followed her to this day. She’d felt exposed and betrayed, and every time she had walked Beauxbatons’ halls and noticed some boy looking her up and down, she’d grown sick and disgusted, feeling naked no matter how many layers she wore.

_Foolish girl with a foolish heart. This is what you get for trusting so easily_ , she’d thought to herself during those awful days.

That’s when she fiercely decided not to trust her own heart and judgement ever again.

_I’ll focus on myself for once in my life_ , she’d promised to herself. On her hobbies, on things that brought her joy, on her studies and preparing herself for taking her N.E.W.T.s the following school year, on her friends and family, and on finding out what she wanted to do with her life when she finished her magical studies.

She wasn’t able to hide a faint, soft smile at the thought of a quiet life, away from the storm that surrounded her in France.

“Oh, I see that smirk of yours,” Theon said with amusement, rising from his seat to go around the table and slide onto the bench to sit closer to her. “Do all you Starks have a secret crush, now?” he asked with humour and mischief in his dark eyes, bumping his shoulder into hers.

“Sod off, Theon,” she said with a low chuckle, bumping into him with a bit more force. “Now, are you going to teach me this card game or not, huh?” she demanded with a grin, tossing a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes and raising an eyebrow in playful defiance.

Theon gave her a sly smile. “Alright, but first I have to know if you’re tipsy enough to learn this. That’s imperative, y’know,” he said, shuffling the cards once more with surprising skill and asking Jory Cassel, the waiter, for another round of drinks.

❖

Jon Snow was more distressed than he thought he would’ve been by the mention of his father.

For years, he’d thought that knowing the slightest bit of information about the man who sired him wouldn’t matter to him. He’d asked Lyanna about him once, and the pained expression on her face was enough for him to leave the matter behind and never mention it again.

His mother was everything to him, she was his whole world. The amount of admiration Jon held for her, for her strength and ability to colour his childhood with stories and wonder even when they’d struggled by with very little, was beyond comparison. He’d been the lucky one, really, to have a mother such as her.

They were a team, they took care of one another, and although they never really talked about it, he believed they were both proud of never needing his father’s assistance. His absence made no difference to their lives.

Therefore, not being able to take Bran’s words out his mind felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

_When the winter ends, the snow melts, and the blue winter rose fades, you will meet your father, Jon Snow. He will look for you._

The burning curiosity which poked at the back of his mind and the itching questions which never left his brain pained him and consumed him like a disease, eating him alive until there was nothing left. 

Staring at the amber liquid inside the glass he slowly spun between his fingers, Jon felt awful.

When Bran had left the library, Jon had torn off a piece of newspaper and written his words in dark ink. The piece of yellow parchment was inside the pocket of his trousers at that very moment, and he could almost feel its weight.

He’d asked Bran about it that night, demanding to know more about his prediction and if there was anything he could tell him, but the poor boy had nothing to give him.

“I only say what comes to me, even though sometimes I don’t know what it means. My gift works more or less like a wireless, capturing what’s around me. That’s why I always take notes on everything I’m able to remember: a dream, a feeling, an intuition, or something like what you just saw. Although my predictions tend to undeniably be true, they don’t often make sense at first. I’m afraid I can’t help you with anything more than that, Jon,” Bran had said to him, leaving him with more questions than answers.

Jon sipped at his drink and ran one hand through his hair, forgetting it was pulled back into a bun. He was supposed to be having fun tonight. He was meant to be chatting with his mates and having a good time, but his brooding old self just wouldn’t allow it. 

“Hey,” said a familiar voice. It was Arya, and she nudged the toe of Jon’s shoe with her own to take his attention off the glass of firewhiskey he’d been studying so attentively.

“Hey,” he answered back, looking up at her and straightening himself in his seat. He then slid along the bench to leave enough space for Arya to sit if she wanted to. “Where’s Meera?” he asked, because the last time he’d seen Arya, she had been chatting with her best friend.

“She’s with Bran and Jojen,” Arya said, pointing at them with a tilt of her head and sitting down beside him with a mug of butterbeer between her hands. “Can I talk to you?” she asked, somewhat seriously.

Jon chuckled. “Do you need to ask?” he said, trying to lighten up her mood somehow, but her expression didn’t change.

“I thought about going to Robb, but I know he’ll be mad at me,” Arya said with a hesitancy that was so unlike her it left him uneasy. “You were the first person I thought of, the only one who wouldn’t judge me so harshly, although I sort of think I deserve it anyway,” she continued without looking at him and staring at her mug instead.

“Alright…”

“I’ve done something terrible today. And quite stupid, too,” she muttered, her brow furrowed and her face looking very sombre, as if she were saying something of the gravest importance.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. They had always been close friends since the first summer he’d spent in Wintertown right after his first year, and to this day, Jon still remembered how he cheered for Hufflepuff during Arya’s sorting ceremony, but thought that Gryffindor suited her better in the end. It was normal for Arya to come to him to talk about her problems or something that had made her feel upset. Jon did the same, although not as often as Arya, because he’d always been more closed off and treated his problems as something that belonged only to him. The truth was that he didn’t want to burden his friends with his own issues, and they generally had to sense that something was not quite right about him for Jon to share anything.

This seemed far more serious than when Arya had vented about how much she hated History of Magic, or how nervous she was about a Quidditch match, however.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice uncertain.

“I don’t know, I just…” she trailed off, a strange choked noise coming out of her mouth. 

Jon listened to her, like he always did when she needed to unburden herself, and when Arya had finished talking, he nodded silently as they descended into the kind of silence that came after you’d talked about something difficult - half grateful for it being over, half relieved to have managed it at all.

❖

“Hey! Two more, Mr. Cassel, and keep them coming, please,” Robb asked the old man with graying hair and beard who wasn’t that far away from them. 

The innkeeper appeared with an extra glass, moving with an air of bustling efficiency, and both glasses filled themselves with amber liquid with a flick of his wand.

“This round is on the house, Mr. Stark,” said Rodrik Cassel, “To thank you for the shortbread and your visit earlier today.” 

The old man had a warm smile on his face, and Robb looked up at him, feeling surprised and suddenly very light. 

Being in his father’s shoes was not something he felt comfortable with just yet. 

In Wintertown, every living witch and wizard admired and respected Eddard Stark. It had been like this since Robb was old enough to understand the world around him, and although the line of inheritance changed when Uncle Brandon passed his right as heir to his younger brother for reasons no one talked about to this day, Robb, as the eldest son, had been shaped and forged to be his father’s heir since he’d said his first words.

He’d worked hard to be worthy of it every single day of his life, doing everything that was expected of him in an attempt to be as good, honorable and just as his father, but Robb knew perfectly well that no one would ever be able to replace Ned Stark.

There was only one Eddard Stark, and if taking his place as the head of the family meant losing his father someday, he just hoped he would never have to do it in the first place.

Sometimes though, he just missed being _only Robb_.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Cassel,” he answered with a shrug, “I hope your wife feels better soon, though. You’ll let us know if you need anything, yeah? Father knows a few healers in St. Mungo’s who could help.”

“Well, I insist,” Mr. Cassel announced with a slow nod and a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, “The Stark family has helped us Cassels for generations, this is the least I can do for a friend of my family.”

Robb smiled. “Thank you. Mr. Cassel,” he said with earnest gratitude. “I’m glad our families share the same feeling of fellowship,” he continued, laying a friendly hand on the innkeeper’s shoulder.

“Besides, it’s Stark Old’s Firewhiskey. It’s only fair you and your friend here get one free round of your own family’s whiskey, for Merlin's sake,” the old man said with a cheerful voice and a rough laugh that echoed through the whole room.

“The best firewhiskey in the country,” replied Robb solemnly, raising his glass with a proud smile on his face.

The innkeeper laughed. “Aye, it sure is, lad,” he said approvingly before walking away to attend to his chores.

Margaery, who had been watching the exchange silently, gazed at him with a puzzled look on her face and a faint smile lingering on her rosy lips.

“What?” Robb asked, turning his attention back to her.

“Nothing,” she answered in an enigmatic tone of voice, looking down at the dark wooden surface of the bar.

“Say it, Tyrell,” he insisted, playfully bumping his shoulder into hers before taking a sip of his firewhiskey, “You’re not someone who hides what you’re thinking, so just spit it out, whatever it is.”

Robb waited for her response and watched her brush a flyaway strand of curly, chocolate coloured hair from her eyes, discreetly looking away from her when he noticed she turned her head in his direction.

“You’re good at this, you know,” she said softly, and whatever he had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t _that_.

Robb frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Taking care of people, valuing them and making them feel special,” she explained, quietly tracing the rim of her glass of firewhiskey, “You’re not trying too hard to do it like some people often do. You do it naturally, I can see that. And so can everyone else.” She turned her head to look straight at him when she finished talking, and his frown deepened.

_Oh,_ he thought, _this is new_.

The two of them had cultivated what seemed like an academic rivalry during all those years at Hogwarts. 

It all started when they had been paired together for a Potions assignment by Professor Martell in their first year, and Robb had been bothered by Margaery’s know-it-all attitude when she assumed, for whatever reason, that he was not very talented at the subject. He had made sure to tell her that it was fairly easy to thrive in that field of magic when one had a renowned Herbologist as a grandmother, and that’s how their silent battle for the best marks in their year had begun.

They had become a bit closer mainly because of Sansa, especially during his sister's time at Beauxbatons. Of all of Sansa’s friends, she had been the only one who would often come to him for news when she hadn’t heard from Sansa in a while, and that had established a certain truce between them.

During his and Arya’s traditional end of term party back in the middle of June, the two of them had talked over some butterbeers and firewhiskeys, and in spite of his massive hangover the following day, Robb remembered having fun around her. Jon, Theon and Gendry never stopped teasing him about it afterwards, which annoyed him more than he expected. It was like his friends could see right through him, not allowing Robb to deny the fact he was curious about this sudden _shift_ between the two of them - from constant bickering to a quiet coexistence.

“Excuse me, but who are you and what have you done with Margaery Tyrell?” he couldn’t help but ask, leaning closer to her and tilting his head to the side with amusement.

She made a sharp exasperated sound before chuckling, “Here I am trying to say something nice and you just ruined it, Robb Stark.”

“I ruined it?” he echoed, half laughing.

“Yes, you did,” she replied without looking at him and taking a sip of her firewhiskey. “Am I not allowed to say something nice?” Margaery asked, and he noticed that she tried to hide how bothered she was by his teasing words.

“You are nice, Tyrell,” Robb attempted to reassure her once he realized she seemed upset by his remark, but felt uneasy with the uncomfortable silence that followed. He rubbed his fingers on the glass and slowly took another sip of his drink. He sighed before continuing, measuring his words. “Just not often to me,” he finished, because even though he was trying to make her feel better, he still couldn’t lie.

“Nonsense,” she said, shaking her head.

“Nonsense?” he asked incredulously, raising his eyebrows and turning his body to the side to face her, “Have you forgotten about almost seven years of rivalry? Of you always wanting to have the last word, and trying to outwit me or beat me in every situation?” he questioned her, amused and annoyed at the same time.

Margaery frowned at first, remaining silent for a moment before shaking her head and saying with a chuckle, “Well, I wasn’t alone in that, was I, Stark?”

Robb considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Besides, you should consider it a compliment, really,” she pointed out, casually taking another sip of her firewhiskey, and Robb’s lips twitched when he tried not to laugh at that.

“And why is that?” he scoffed, unable to hide his reaction.

It was Margaery’s turn to angle her body towards him. With a hand on her hip, she grinned charmingly at him before finishing her drink and knocking the empty glass against the top of the bar.

“Did it ever cross your mind that I might actually consider you a worthy opponent?” she asked with a raised eyebrow and a hint of a smirk, before walking back to their friends’ table without saying another word.

❖

Sansa didn't recognize him at first, standing tall and dark in the dim light. He was leaning against the stone balcony at the back of the pub, away from all the music, chatter and laughter, gazing out at the beautiful little wizarding village with its narrow roads and uneven slate roofs. 

She didn’t want to disturb him, especially as he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, but when she meant to go back into the pub, the wooden door creaked and betrayed her.

“I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just about to leave,” Sansa said quickly before he could say anything, waving a dismissive hand in front of her.

“It’s alright,” Jon said, looking at her from over his shoulder, “I mean, there’s enough space for the both of us.”

Sansa gave him a faint smile, a bit uncertain if he was just being polite or if he really didn’t mind her joining him. In the end she chose to walk slowly towards the edge of the balcony and lean her elbows on the frame.

It was quiet, even though they were outside a crowded pub. The night was uncharacteristically chilly for late August, although that wasn’t uncommon for Wintertown with its colder weather. The magical lit lamps twinkled under the moonlight, casting the streets in a golden light, and the many trees that cradled the village blew back and forth by the wind.

The cool, damp breeze felt pleasant on her face, helping her sober up a bit. She’d had a couple of foaming mugs of butterbeer throughout the night, enough to make her feel warm and fuzzy inside, but not enough to get her drunk. That wasn’t what she wanted for her night, anyway. It was all about having fun and enjoying being around her friends, just like old times.

“Do you want one?” inquired Jon, and his sudden remark made Sansa start. Her head snapped in his direction, and that’s when she noticed he was smoking a cigarette, the small white cloud of smoke trailing away from his parted lips and floating around him. 

Tossing a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, she shook her head. “Oh, no. Thank you, though.”

For a few moments, there was silence except for the sound of the wind and the muffled noise of music and conversations, and Sansa contemplated the lovely view, savouring it like she would a butterbeer or the taste of her family’s famous firewhiskey.

“Aren’t you going to say something about how unhealthy it is?” Jon asked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“I think you’re old enough to know what you’re doing, Jon,” said Sansa, too quickly to think about her choice of words. The moment she heard them out loud, however, she worried whether or not they seemed rude.

He exhaled with a sharp, amused sound that sounded almost like a laugh. “Fair enough.”

Much to Sansa’s relief, he didn’t seem offended by her words, and she smiled briefly at that.

“Can you smell it?” she asked a few moments later, cocking her chin forwards and staring out at the dark streets.

“Smell what?” Jon said, leaning in and following her gaze. He put out his cigarette and tossed it away before sliding closer to her.

“The rain,” Sansa sighed, closing her eyes and allowing her senses to capture everything around her: the smell of pine, the scent of the rain right before it fell, and the earthy perfume that reminded her of home. “I think it’s my favourite scent in the whole world,” she whispered, as if it were a secret. “Is it weird if I say it only smells like this here in Wintertown? It’s like the air is fresher here, and the rain makes the earth smell bright, as if it’s just woken up,” Sansa said, turning her head to glance at him once again.

There was a long silence. Jon didn’t say anything, which gave Sansa the impression he hadn’t heard her or hadn't been paying attention, and she was too embarrassed by the possibility of it being the latter to say something else.

In the dim light, his face looked thoughtful, and Sansa wondered what he was thinking. She noticed he was wearing dark fitted jeans and a black shirt with its long sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It reminded her of when he prepared them tea the other night, with the care and concern of someone performing an ancient ritual. His thick, dark curls were pulled back into a bun, styled in the same way they were the morning he arrived at Winterfell Estate, and she couldn’t help but notice he looked effortlessly handsome, moonlit and absorbed in his own thoughts.

If her brother and his best mates were recurring names in the conversations of female students at Hogwarts years before, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder about the impression they left _now_.

She almost called Jon’s name just to make sure he’d actually heard her, or to make up some excuse to go back inside the pub, because she still had that uneasy feeling in the back of her mind that she was bothering him in some way when, abruptly, Jon caught her gaze.

“It’s the sea breeze for me,” Jon confessed after a moment, folding his hands on top of one another and resting his elbows on the balcony, “The sight of it, the smell of it, the sound of it... it all reminds me of where I was born.”

“Somewhere in the southwest of Ireland, right?” she asked, remembering that Robb had mentioned something about his Irish muggle-born friend in the letters he used to write to her during his first year, so she wouldn’t feel lonely at home. Even if she didn’t remember that, she wouldn’t be able to escape Jon’s broad, unmistakably Irish accent; it felt pleasant to her ears.

“Aye, County Kerry, but me Mam is a Scot,” Jon replied with a nod.

That took her by surprise. “Really? I didn’t know that!”

“Yeah, but she left Scotland many, many years ago, and lost touch with her family,” he said, his voice low and contemplative, as if his mind were elsewhere.

She had no idea Jon had Scottish heritage, and she thought of asking him more about it, but Jon seemed to be about to say something else.

“Listen,” he started, looking off towards the village, the moonlight bright enough for her to see his throat move as he swallowed. “About what you said the other day, about someone teaching you how to fly a broom…”

“Oh, Jon, you don’t have to worry about that,” Sansa interrupted him. 

She remembered his suggestion of a broom race the other day, a clear attempt to make things less awkward between her and Arya. It had been awfully nice of him, of course, but she had never - even for a moment - expected him to follow through on that suggestion, and she didn’t want him to think he had any obligation to it. Sansa knew that sometimes people offered things out of politeness, not because they actually wanted to do it in the first place, and she understood that he’d only made the offer to be nice to his best mate’s little sister, nothing more.

“I thought about asking Robb for help, but Myrcella kindly offered to do it when we get to Torrhen’s Hills, so I can join you all the next time you play Quidditch,” she quickly added with a shrug. 

“Oh, right…” Jon said, flicking his eyes away from her. After a long pause, he went on, “I'm glad you found someone to help, though.”

For a brief moment, Sansa thought she saw a hint of embarrassment cross his features. It must have been from Jon pushing himself to go along with something he felt obliged to do, and was now trying to disguise the relief of being freed from that promise. She was glad not to burden him with it anymore.

“Thanks for trying to help the other day. I appreciate it,” Sansa began, smiling weakly. “But there’s no need for you to worry about that, I’m sure you have other more interesting things to do with your time. I mean, with Robb and the lads,” she continued matter-of-factly, while Jon just nodded and slid his hands into his pockets. 

She didn’t want him to assume she expected anything from him, especially as Jon came to spend a few weeks of his summer in Wintertown to be with his best mate, not to teach Robb’s younger sister how to fly a broom without fearing she was going to break several bones of her body.

“Besides, it’s your last summer before your final year at Hogwarts. I don’t want to ruin it by taking up too much of your time,” she felt the need to add, because he was falling into yet another silence. 

Perhaps these silences of his weren’t as uncommon as she thought. The Jon Snow she knew from a couple of years ago had kept to himself most of the time, at least when he was around her. He’d always been a quiet boy, and she’d always thought Jon had one of those unreadable faces that meant someone was either deep and mysterious, or didn't have much to say. Sansa doubted it was the latter, and she assumed his lack of words were because they had never been close to one another or shared meaningful conversations over the years. Although their interactions had always been polite, there had also been a certain awkwardness to them. They didn’t have anything in common, actually, except for their connections to Robb and Arya, and so she tried not to take his silences too personally.

“Aren’t you feeling a bit nostalgic?” she asked mildly, glancing up at him as she tried once again to fill the silence.

“About what?” he finally said.

“Your final year, of course.”

“Right!” Jon breathed, as if he’d been far too distracted to listen to what she’d been saying. For the second time that evening, Sansa wondered if she ought to leave him alone, so she wouldn’t make a fool of herself by trying to rouse a conversation he didn’t seem to feel like having. _Not with me, at least_ , she thought.

Before she had time to say anything, however, Jon added, “Yeah, I sort of am. I mean, Hogwarts has been my home for almost seven years. It’ll be weird not going back to the castle after next summer.”

Sansa nodded, trying to hide the sudden rush of relief she felt when she noticed that the painful awkwardness she felt while trying to engage him in conversation was now gone.

“What do you plan on doing when you leave?” she inquired, leaning back against the stone balcony with folded arms andher legs crossed at the ankles.

“I’m hoping to get into the Auror Program,” Jon answered without hesitation.

“Oh, really?” she asked, but somehow she wasn't surprised by it at all. “Well, I think it suits you very well. You know, my Uncle Benjen is an Auror too.”

“I know, I spoke to him about it before I took my O.W.L.s. Robb was the one who introduced us, actually,” Jon began, taking a step closer to her, his hands still in his pockets. “I tried to find out more about the Auror Office and what is expected of the candidates. I know the training is extremely difficult and intensive, and that it’s not easy to fulfil the requirements needed to even get onto the training program, but Professor Tarth said she thinks I have a good chance,” Jon said with a hint of pride in his voice, and he seemed to stand a little taller when he mentioned the Defense Against The Dark Arts Professor. 

“I think Professor Tarth is right,” Sansa pointed out, softly and seriously. Brienne Tarth was considered one of the best Aurors of her generation, having gained a reputation as a skilful fighter against the Dark Arts. If she believed Jon had a chance of getting into such an arduous and demanding training program, there was no question about it. “I remember your duel with Joffrey Baratheon in my second year. It was quite impressive, Jon,” said Sansa honestly. 

She was not trying to flatter him or anything, she was only pointing out the truth: Jon was a talented dueller. Everyone at Hogwarts knew that. But when Jon blinked at her, however, Sansa realized she’d caught him off guard.

“It was just a mess of hexes…” Jon said with a shrug, shaking his head.

“I know it’s nothing like the type of threat Aurors deal with every day,” she elaborated, “but you had quick reflexes, I remember noticing that. You’re a natural.”

There was a beat of silence, and Jon spent a great deal of it looking down at his feet, lost to a kind of brooding that Sansa didn’t know how to breach. After a few seconds, he slowly glanced back up at her.

“Thank you, Sansa,” Jon said finally, nodding. His voice was hoarse, and Sansa felt a nervous flutter in her chest at the warmth and intensity of his tone.

They fell into another silence for a while, but Sansa realized she felt more comfortable with it this time around, not feeling the need to say something to fill it.

“What about you?” Jon asked after a moment, “What do you plan on doing when you finish Hogwarts?”

The question took her by surprise. She should have expected it given the course of their conversation, since she was asking him about that very same thing moments before, but this was something Sansa hadn't really talked about with someone recently. She’d listened attentively to her friends talking about their plans for the future, but Sansa had been much more interested in hearing what they had to say than actually thinking about the question herself.

“Honestly? I don’t know,” she replied, frowning thoughtfully. “You see, Beauxbatons’ curriculum is different to Hogwarts’,” Sansa continued, surprised at how excited she felt about the prospect of talking to someone about everything she’d learned at the French school, that the possibility of Jon not being so interested in hearing about it didn’t even cross her mind. “In the early years there’s a lot of focus on charms and wandwork, and they have the option of also studying the arts, like music, poetry and literature, not only the wizarding texts but muggle ones too. Oh, and Languages, Jon! I absolutely _loved_ studying languages,” she said cheerfully, not being able to suppress her smile. She felt alive and warm with the thrill of enthusiasm, much like how she felt every time she took great sips from foaming mugs of hot butterbeer. “Have you ever heard about the history of centaurs and merpeople, their language, culture and customs?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.

“Vaguely, mostly,” replied Jon, “Professor Lannister mentioned them during his Care of Magical Creatures Class, and Professor Baratheon made us write an essay about the Centaur Uprising once. Robb helped me a bit with that one, though. He’s better at History of Magic than I am.” He paused to absently scratch his stubble with the tips of his fingers. “Nothing compared to how much you seem to know about them, of course,” the wizard was quick to add, glancing up at her. “But c’mon, tell me more about it!” Jon said, leaning in. The corners of his lips twitched up in an encouraging smile as he met her eyes, and his complete focus on her and what she had to say left Sansa a little taken aback.

“Well…” Sansa began, feeling a bit distracted. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear to gain a bit of time to compose herself, trying her best not to let her surprise at his attentiveness divert her from her train of thought. “I learned a little about their languages. Centaurs, merpeople and goblins too. Not much, of course, but I found it rather fascinating. It was one of my favourite subjects at Beauxbatons, actually, because it’s something we don’t get to learn at Hogwarts. Politics, magical laws and debate are all other subjects that are highly encouraged there, so I took those classes too,” she explained, remembering how refreshing it felt to learn about such new, exciting areas of magical knowledge. Her mind purposefully dodged her advanced lessons in Charms with Professor Baelish, though, because that wasn’t something she wanted to think about at that moment.

“But the problem is that… before Beauxbatons, I always thought I would get my N.E.W.T.s in Herbology, since it’s something I enjoy studying so much,” Sansa continued, “Now that I’ve had the chance to get to know all these different areas, I don’t know which one to choose. And I have to decide very, very soon, so I can pick my classes for my N.E.W.T.s levels for this school year,” finished Sansa with a sigh, and she returned her gaze to Jon. 

She noticed that his eyes were fixed on her, a crease forming between his eyebrows and a focused expression on his face. Jon seemed to be listening closely to every word she said, and that realisation made her feel something strange in the pit of her stomach, a squirming, agitated feeling that made her heart pound in her chest. Sansa felt the heat rise in her face, and she prayed Jon did not notice.

“Good Merlin, you’re probably thinking I sound just like a Ravenclaw right now, aren’t you?” Sansa blurted out with a nervous laugh, and he grinned at her.

Jon was not the sort of person to smile very often, at least not when he was around her. Sansa always thought it was some sort of ability reserved only for Robb and Arya, and she found herself feeling proud of being able to make him laugh at one of her remarks. 

“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking at all!” Jon said with a lopsided grin, which seemed to be highly contagious since it was mirrored on Sansa’s face immediately without her even noticing it.

“Then what were you thinking?” Sansa asked curiously before she could stop herself.

Jon considered her question for a moment. Their comfortable silence was only interrupted by the slow, faraway growl of thunder announcing a summer storm, the scent of rain now stronger than ever.

“I was actually thinking that, whatever path you choose, if you do it with half the passion you showed just by talking about it, I’m sure you’ll do it brilliantly, Sansa,” Jon said, the corner of his lip twitching up in an earnest grin.

Too overcome to respond properly, Sansa only managed to shoot him a smile.

As thunder rumbled once more and rain started to fall, she reached for her wand just in time to cast a nonverbal spell that created an invisible shield above their heads, in order to keep them dry.

“Oh, I missed this terribly,” she whispered, more to herself than anything, while they both watched the sky weep over Wintertown for a few moments.

Suddenly they heard a loud, echoing _crack_ break the night, sounding nothing like the thunder that still grumbled distantly now and then. The noise of someone apparating was completely ordinary in an all-magical community, and that’s why Sansa paid no attention to it and continued to contemplate the view of the rain falling above the cottages and shops with their rooftops and wonky chimneys.

However, when Sansa felt Jon stiffen beside her and turned her head to the wizard to ask him what was the matter, she knew at once that something was not right, for he had drawn his wand and wore a serious expression on his face.

“Jon, what’s wrong?” Sansa asked, but Jon didn’t answer her right away. “Tell me,” she insisted, resting a hand over his shoulder.

“I think I saw something,” Jon said at last.

“Where?”

“There,” he whispered, pointing to the end of a narrow cobbled street surrounded by tightly packed houses. 

The street was empty, except for two hooded figures standing in the rain. The broader figure carried the slim one as he walked with quick strides down the street, continually looking over his shoulder as though he was checking if he was being followed. As he walked underneath the magical lit streetlamps, they were briefly illuminated by patches of light carved out of the deep darkness, and Jon and Sansa watched the slim figure collapse motionless onto the street, his body going limp like he was unconscious or had been severely hurt.

Before Sansa had time to say anything, Jon made a sudden movement and stormed by her, already jumping down the set of steps that connected the pub’s balcony to the street.

Hurriedly, he said, “You should get back inside the pub with the others, Sansa.”

Sansa glared at him.

“What? _No!_ ” she protested, her blue eyes narrowed.

“It might not be safe, you should go back inside,” Jon repeated, and he proceeded to hurry down the road while being pelted by the chilly rain, which was falling louder and heavier with each roll of thunder.

“Then why are you going in the first place?” she snapped, undoing the shielding spell that had been protecting them and running down the steps after him. “Honestly, it might be nothing! Perhaps it’s just someone helping a mate who drank himself into oblivion and nothing more,” she pointed out, already feeling her hair and clothes getting damp from the pounding, needling rain.

“Seriously, Sansa -” Jon said, coming to a halt and turning to her, “I _need_ you to stay at the pub.” He looked genuinely concerned.

“I’m going too,” she said sternly. Sansa knew it would be nearly impossible to talk some sense into him, so she might as well join him. “Don’t worry about me, I’ve got my wand, same as you. I’m coming.”

Reluctantly, Jon nodded, setting his jaw, and they both followed the hooded figures into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the cliffhanger but will you forgive me if I say that next chapter will have lots of Jonsa? :)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I would love to know what you guys thought about it! Best wishes <3


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